Emotionally Involved
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: When Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, is shot during an investigation, Batman must find her attacker and protect her secret identity. Mean while, detectives from Gotham PD work on the case in a more ortodox way. Now, COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Hi, there!

Yes, yes, I know… Looks like I can't write about anything else but Batman and Catwoman, right? Well, it's true. They are my favorites. Anyway, this story is an idea I recently had, nothing terribly original, but a simple thing: some drama, some romance, some mystery, and many characters from Batman Universe – including the almost obligatory participation of Superman.

This is just the first chapter, and it doesn't go very far, but I think it gives an idea of where this story goes. I just would like to add that the detectives from Gotham Police that are shown here are actual members of the force, and characters you can find in the pages of "Gotham Central", book written by Ed Brubacker and Gregg Rucka. However, I didn't read many issues of this comic, so the characters in here might not be faithful to the versions you know. I kindly ask for your patience, and I'll be glad to hear your opinion in reviews.

Considering DC's timeline, I would place this story after One Year Later. But I don't stick so much to timeline, because, after all, it can change any moment.

Finally, I tell you again that English is a foreign language to me – although I've improved in this last year! -, and you will most certainly find mistakes. I apologize for it, of course, and I would be very happy if you could give me a feedback on any mistakes you find.

Hope you enjoy the reading, and leave me a review if you can.

Have fun!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

The _how_ didn't bother him. _How_ is usually something he can easily figure out. The weapon, the logistic, the time, the place. All those things he could uncover in a matter of hours, sometimes even less. No, _how_ is never the question…

The question is usually _why_…

Why people do what they do. Why people commit crimes. _That_ is truly the work of a detective.

The other questions – _how_, and, most important, _who_ – can be answered much easier, much faster, much simpler when you actually know why.

Of course, the _why_ is hardly the first answer you get. Actually, it's usually the last, and not rarely is the question that remains without answer. True, the who and how can get people into jail just the same, but still… things are not complete, not for him, until he understands the why.

Take this one, for example: mid-aged woman, housewife, mother of three, gets shot in the head while walking home from a grocery store. Time? It was 4:17 p.m., according to an eye witness that had just checked his watch. The victim was on the sidewalk of the block where she lived, thirty five feet from the entrance of her own building in East End Gotham. No, not the best neighborhood in town, but still… It was a quiet afternoon, other people were around – three senior citizens were playing cards just across the street, a bunch of children were in the middle of an improvised baseball game, a teenage couple was… well, doing what teenage couples do, both seated on the stairs of the building in front of which the woman collapsed. An innocent, almost idyllic scenario, completely inadequate for the violent death of this poor victim.

What else could be said about it? First, there was no noise, no sign; just the woman – her name was Beatrice Collins – suddenly falling to the ground, the top of her skull separated from the rest of her body, and the sad, bloody bits of her brain spread over the dirty sidewalk. People panicked, most of them ran, except for an eighty years old man, one Dan Grady, former police officer, that approached the body and consciously looked up. Doing so, our respectful Mr. Grady saw what seemed to him like a person – man or woman, he can't be sure, because he just can't see so well these days – on the top of one of the buildings across the street. To his best knowledge, Mr. Grady could only tell that this person was dressed in black, and seemed to carry what looked like a _very_ big rifle. The person wore no cape, as Mr. Grady kindly pointed out in the statement he made at the police station, making it impossible to be the Batman.

And now, around three a.m. in a hot summer night, Batman remembers Mr. Grady with gratitude for his concern.

Batman was on the rooftop where – presumably - the sniper had waited and then shot Beatrice Collins. According to police reports, this building and all the others in the block where searched, but nothing could be found. This one in particular was just a simple residential building, no better or worse than the other ones around; it's so common and boring that no one would give it a second look. All the apartments in it were occupied, all by ordinary people: two families, an old lady that lives by herself, three young actors that are trying to make a living in theater, a young couple that has no children. No one has a criminal record, no one has a history of involvement with crime what so ever, none of the residents even has any signs of drug use. The greatest connection one could establish between Beatrice Collins and anyone in this building is that her youngest son studies in the same school as one of the little girls that lives here; and no, they are not in the same class.

This one, the murder of this peaceful housewife, was about to become a real mystery.

Batman kneeled close to the edge of the building, looking down to the street where Beatrice had died less then twelve hours ago. On the sidewalk, the blood stains could still be seen, and would remain there for a while. Blood, he knew, wasn't something that could easily be washed away.

He focused on the problem again: the poor woman was killed - and that was one of the details that caught his attention - with just one very precise shot, a shot from a gun that could easily hit a target from a greater distance than the one used. The ammunition, according to Gotham Police, was an explosive and highly restricted one, allowed only in Army Special Forces, and surely not the kind used to kill ordinary citizens, but more the kind you use to pierce Kevlar vests during a war. Add to that the silencer, and the way this hitman took care to don't leave any traces, and you could conclude that someone out there went to quite a lot of trouble just to murder Beatrice Collins.

Housewife. Mother of three. On her way home from the grocery store.

No, there was something so very wrong with that picture…

"I always knew the scent of blood could attract sharks…" The voice came from behind him, an unexpected sound to the man that wasn't use to be caught by surprise. However, the voice – subtle, feminine, sultry – wasn't at all an _unpleasant_ surprise. "In Gotham, I guess blood attracts _bats_."

"Selina", he answered as a simple and unremarkable ascertain. Although, of course, nothing about her could be said to be simple or unremarkable. He rose from the dark corner where he was, quietly observing as she approached him. Catwoman, as she was known, dressed in her black and characteristic uniform, that gorgeous woman that always seemed to have a way to… well, _distract_ him, at best, or disturb him, at worst.

"That's my name."

"What are you doing here?"

"And that's _my_ line…" She smiled, her seductive and jocular smile. "The East End is Catwoman's territory, I'm sure you remember…"

"And _Gotham_ is Batman's territory." He added in a husky tone.

The Catwoman smirked, seeming amused by his reaction.

"All right, all right…!" She reached a hand to his face, her gloved fingers lightly touching the exposed skin. "I'm not complaining, you know? You're always welcome…"

He grabbed her wrist, his fingers wrapped around her arm, the gesture – he didn't intend it to be so harsh – causing her to groan in painful dissatisfaction. "Ouch! Why did you…?"

"No time for this. I'm working." He turned his back on her, letting go of her arm.

"No kidding…! And what do you think I'm doing, _detective_?" She rubbed her wrist with one hand, staring at him in a resentful expression. "Bastard. That really hurt…!"

"I didn't mean to", he quickly admitted. Looking at her, not completely turning, but over his shoulder, he said: "I… I apologize."

In the moment of silence that followed, Batman watched as Selina stared at him, first in a doubtful glance, then replaced by the very familiar roguish smile: "Apologies, hm? Unexpected, but I think I can get use to it…"

"Don't."

"Oh, don't be so grim…" She approached him until their bodies were inches apart, almost touching each other. "We both know there's more than that into you…" She whispered, her mouth close to his face, so close he could hear her lips move: "You can drop the 'merciless hero' act, Bruce…"

He whispered back:

"It's not an act."

"When you're around me it is."

Refraining himself from smiling, he stepped back, increasing by a few inches the distance between them.

"I _do_ make you nervous, don't I?"

"Is this about the Collins case? Or is this just some sort of recreation…?"

"Okay, okay!" She interrupted him, a sigh that indicated irritation and recognition of defeat followed her words. She placed both hands on her hips, her green eyes sparkling. "Unbelievable… Yes, I'm in the Collins case."

"Why would you", he inquired, "if you are no longer the Catwoman?"

"That's arguable."

Batman showed no reaction to that.

"Anyway", Selina proceeded, "I knew Beatrice Collins."

"Really?" He was genuinely interested; after all, nothing he had discovered about Beatrice Collins so far suggested she had any connections with the Catwoman.

"Yes. We were…"

It happened fast, so very fast.

Catwoman yelled at him, yelled the words _get down_, and her hands were on his chest, pushing him away. It didn't make any sense, not to him, not at that moment, but he obeyed her, moving as fast as he could, trusting her words and the expression of fear that took her features.

And then, even before he felt the cold floor under his body, even before Catwoman herself could move, he saw what was the source of her fear: the red, small, almost imperceptible flash of light, the red dot that moved from his chest to his cape, and then he couldn't see it anymore, see where had it gone…

There was a noise. Low, muffled, distant, but a noise never the less, a sound he could, always would recognize. The sound of a _gun_. The sound of a shot. Yes, disguised, hidden, unique… but a sound that he could never ignore, could never avoid listen. He heard it one, two, three times. He heard the projectiles hitting again and again its target. He felt his left leg burn, just below his knee. He felt warm blood suddenly touching the skin of his face. He tasted it, the small drops on his lips.

_Her_ blood.

"Catwoman!" The word escaped in a desperate cry, a horrified call as he saw her collapsing. _No, no, no, Selina!_ His mind, the rational and cold mind of the detective, counted three wounds, three shots that pierced her chest, abdomen, and right shoulder. _Kidney, heart, clavicle. Dead?_

There was a sniper somewhere, a man with a powerful gun, and the Batman knew the risk, the risk of rising from the floor, where he was partially protected, and going to Selina, who was such an easy target, lying completely helpless on the floor. If the shooter wanted Batman, approaching Selina would give the perfect opportunity.

"_Selina!_" There was Selina, and she needed him.

It took him less than a second to reach her, and maybe another second to take her into his arms. Then, two other seconds to find shelter behind the building's water reservoir, he finally giving himself a chance to look at her, at her broken body from which blood ferociously flowed.

He touched her neck, looking for a pulse. Nothing, nothing at first, he couldn't feel anything… _Oh, no…_ He removed his own glove, tossing it aside, again pressing his finger against her soft skin; there, so weak, faltering, failing, there he felt a pulse.

"Thank God…", he sighed, relieved for the fact she was still alive, however feeling his desperation grow from the obvious knowledge that he would never be able to save her in time. She was bleeding, bleeding so much, and he knew the bullet that pierced her chest – although it missed her heart - had probably caused an artery rupture. "Selina…"

He felt his own eyes misting.

"_She can't die!_" No, he couldn't let her die. He had to do something, had to try. No matter the costs. He would do anything.

But first, he needed _help_.

* * *

"Ready, Marcus?"

Detective Marcus Driver, from Gotham City Police Department, had seen too many bad things in his life. He had been around death more than any person should, even one that works in GPD, and he had seen all kinds of atrocities, remarkably those committed by masked wackos – type of people Gotham had no lack of, unfortunately. As an officer that had worked the night shift almost his entire career, Driver was also no strange to that thing called Batman; a man, yes, but, above all, a masked vigilante, a guy that was out there crossing all the lines regular detectives couldn't, and still posing as a hero. Had the Batman ever helped? Yeah, he had, no doubt. However, how could they know all that mess he pretended to clean wasn't his fault in the first place?

Unfair? Maybe. Old Commissioner Gordon trusted the guy, and Gordon was the best cop Gotham ever had… still, Batman had it coming. How can any mask – villain or hero – ask people to trust him? How can you trust someone you can't even see the face, see his _eyes_… No, Marcus Driver, detective, would never be able to actually trust those guys, villain or hero, people that hide their names and often play God.

Right now, however, he would have to.

It was about three forty five a.m. when he got the call. Someone from Gotham's Central Hospital, telling a woman had just entered the E.R. with multiple bullet wounds… No biggie, not in Gotham, but this one was actually pretty big. It seemed like this unfortunate – and about to die – lady had been another victim of the mysterious sniper that had highly technological equipment and a special attraction to harmless woman.

The Collins case. It was connected with the Collins case.

Marcus rushed to the hospital, taking the other avaible detective in the Central with him – Romy Chandler, female hot detective, currently his secret girlfriend. They got there in less than ten minutes, with Romy driving like a crazy person, while Marcus prayed for one of two things: first, that the woman survived and could give a solid statement; second, if she died, that at least her body could provide enough physical evidence to give them at least a _clue_ to where they should start looking… Yes, pretty _cold_ of him to think like that, but if there was something Marcus Driver just _hated_ where dead ends. And the sniper guy, who ever he was, had given them nothing to work with, so far.

However, in Gotham, nothing can be easy. Nothing can even be at least simple, and this case wasn't different. The story Driver and Chandler heard as they got to the hospital caused Marcus to shiver, a reaction that came from the knowledge that things would only get worst…

"Marcus, hey!" Romy was waving a hand in front of his face. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah, yeah…" They were standing a few feet from a door that had a sign saying "O.R. 1 Observation Room". Driver's watch now showed him it was almost six a.m., and he knew that, to end his shift for the night, he had to go inside that room, and take the statement of one last and crucial witness to the case. "I'm just, you know, _preparing_…"

"Preparing? Well, enough of preparations, will you..? Our _witness_ may have a change of heart at any moment, and then we won't be able to ever track him down again."

"It's never hard to _find_ him…" Driver sighed, not hiding his obvious contempt. "The hard part is convincing this kind of guy to collaborate."

"They do collaborate…" Romy started.

"… in their own way." Marcus finished her sentence. "Yeah, yeah, I know. And I'm sick of it."

"You do realize he can hear you through the door, don't you?"

An uncomfortable silence took place as detective Driver rubbed his face with one hand. Romy and Marcus exchanged glances, and she broke the silence:

"Ah, what the hell…! He can also see through walls!"

"No point in hiding our cards… Guess we should just go in." He reached for the handle, slowly opening the door: "Excuse me, Superman…"

There he was: the _great_ Superman, as Driver usually referred to him, with an ironic intonation on the word great. Indeed he was impressive, Marcus would give him that much. Superman was a big guy, much taller that he looked in papers or TV. And… well, _big_, just big, with big arms, broad shoulders, large chest. He was truly impressive, although not like the Batman, who was impressive in a _scary_ way – honestly, Marcus always had serious doubts about the Batman, wondering if that powerful figure the Dark Knight seemed to have was nothing but a trick of his gadgets and uniform. Well, the Superman had no trick, no illusion; he clearly wore nothing but his uniform (spandex, lycra, whatever it was called), and it had no armor, no signs of fake muscles, nothing in his clothes that were there with the purpose of impress. To be honest, his uniform, all those bright colors, the red cape, all seemed to be there to make people more… comfortable. Because, really, if this guy wanted to scare people, he could easily do it even in a clown outfit.

"Good night detectives. I was waiting for you." He offered his hand in a gesture that looked like a friendly handshake.

"More like good morning, sir." Driver took Superman's hand, thinking that the man could rip his arm off in a blink if he wanted to. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm detective Driver, and this is detective Chandler…"

"Pleasure", the superhero acknowledged Chandler's presence with a smile, one that Driver judged as unnecessarily kind.

"We have a few questions for you, if you don't mind." The detective made his best to sound very professional and unimpressed.

"Anything I can do to help, detective Driver."

Annoyingly good, that's how Marcus would describe Superman right now. _"No one can be so nice."_

"That's very thoughtful, thank you."

_"And you are so obviously machinating something…"_ Taking his note pad out of his jacket pocket, Driver started with the questions.

"I understand you were the one who brought the victim…" He flapped back and forward a few pages in his note pad. "Ms. Irena Dubrovna, right?"

"Irena Dubrovna? That's her name?"

Superman looked genuinely surprised.

"Yes, that's her name."

Marcus stared at Superman in distrust, while Romy quickly insisted on the question:

"You were the one who brought her here, yes?"

An almost imperceptible hesitation delayed Superman's answer; nothing a regular person would notice, but Marcus Driver had too much experience with interrogatories to let it pass unnoticed.

"Yes, I brought her." Superman's glance left the detectives in front of him, and went to the glass window on his right. Through the glass he could see the operation room, where Irena Dubrovna was now under surgical procedure, a dozen doctors around her, her chest open and her heart exposed. She had been there for a couple hours, and would be for many more, if she was _lucky_. Odds were against her, and death was the most likely outcome. "I tried to get here as fast as I could… Hope she survives."

"We all do…" Driver forced himself to look at the poor woman. From what he had heard, the fact she was still alive was already a miracle; considering just the amount of blood she had lost before had gotten to the hospital… most people would already be dead. "So, Superman, would you mind telling us why you were in Gotham, and how did you managed to so promptly help Ms. Dubrovna? Were you with her when she was shot?"

The hero's gentle smile would be enough to make most people immediately smile back, but not Marcus Driver. No, he was a police officer in Gotham, and he knew better than just accept a kind smile instead of an answer. "Well?", he insisted.

"No, I wasn't there when she was shot, unfortunately. If I was, maybe all this could have been avoided…"

_"Oh… sure you would, big hero! You could have stopped the bullets, right? You would have caught the guy already, wouldn't you? You, the Superman, would have solved this case already, isn't that what you're saying?"_

"Interesting." Romy Chandler spoke as she played with her neck pendant, a gesture Marcus had already learned that meant she was uncomfortable with something. "So how did you managed to get to her so quickly? How did you _guess_…?"

"I didn't guess." For the first time Superman looked at the detectives with an expression that translated some level of distress. "He called me."

"_He_? And who would 'he' be?" Driver asked the question, although he already knew the answer.

"Batman. Batman called me."

_The message came through the League's COM link:_

_"I need you. Now!"_

_Bruce sounded not only nervous, but even despaired. And this reaction, coming from the Batman, could scare even the man known as Superman._

_"Be right there. Where…?"_

_"Residential building in East End Gotham, fifteen miles southeast from Wayne Manor. Follow the supersonic signal."_

_"Got it."_

_It took him twelve seconds to find Bruce; he easily identified him on the rooftop of the building, almost unharmed. Even before getting near Batman he noticed the wounded person – really wounded – that Bruce seemed to be treating, and without success. However, it was only when Superman landed near his colleague that he realized what was the calling about: the wounded person was Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, and she was dieing. _

_"It took you long enough…"_

_Superman didn't resent Batman's ungrateful comment, knowing Bruce was now living a private nightmare. Not only the person involved was Selina, Bruce's ex-girlfriend, and, Superman thought, still someone Bruce loved, but the scene was a crude replica of Batman's worst memory: the death of his parents by gunshots, he watching them die, their blood on his hands. How disturbing was that to him?_

_"What can I do?" _

_"Take her to the hospital… as fast as you can!"_

_Superman took the woman from Bruce's arms, unable to avoid hearing Selina's heart faltering, almost stopping… And there was also Batman's heart, a ferocious beating, his body completely tense, sweat and blood all over him. _

_"But…"_

_"GO, Clark…!" Batman clenched his teeth, almost yelling, almost, to Superman's shock, loosing control._

_"I talk to you when I get there." He was already flying above Bruce's head when he spoke, and gained speed as he crossed the neighborhood. In his arms, Selina draw a breath, and Superman wondered if it would be her last. _

"Oh, that explains…" Sighting, Romy Chandler gave Driver a look that usually meant "dead end". Nothing useful would come out of that.

Marcus, however, wasn't so sure.

"So, _Batman_ was with Ms. Dubrovna when she got shot?"

"I couldn't tell."

"Couldn't… or wouldn't?"

Superman raised an eyebrow: "I hope you're not suggesting I would obstruct the work of justice, detective Driver."

Marcus smiled: "Only a crazy man would suggest that, right Superman?"

The hero didn't answer.

"Okay…" Driver took notes. "So, one last question…"

"Please, go on."

"It looks like… correct me if I'm wrong… that Batman and Ms. Dubrovna knew each other even _before_ this attack, is that right?"

Superman's blue eyes sparkled in a way that Marcus couldn't quite describe or understand. He was either angry or surprised, maybe both.

"Why do you say that?"

"He went through a lot of trouble to save this woman… to _try _saving her."

He saw as Superman shook his head in disbelief.

"Something wrong?"

"You really don't get him, do you?" Now Superman had his arms crossed over his chest, and made no effort to hide how irritated he was.

"Excuse me…" Detective Chandler tried to speak, but the Man of Steel interrupted her:

"Batman would do that for _anyone_, detectives. For a friend or for a stranger, for an ally or even for an enemy. He saves liveshe does it everyday, and he does it indiscriminately."

An awkward silence filled the small room, and Superman turned to again face the window, his attention on the surgery.

"Is this all?" He finally asked, but still don't looking at the detectives.

"Yes." Driver was pretty upset, considering that this conversation had lead to a bunch of nothing.

"Actually…" Romy said, ignoring Marcus' surprised look. "Actually, just one more question."

"Yes?" Superman's reflex could be seen on the glass, his blue eyes indirectly staring at Romy.

"Do _you_ know Ms. Dubrovna?"

Superman sighed. "I had never heard of Irena Dubrovna before."

"Oh, okay then. That's all." Romy smiled. "We'll leave you alone, Superman."

Marcus returned his note pad to his pocket: "We are going to get him, Superman. The guy that did this." There was no irony or lie in his words.

"I hope so. Good luck."

The detectives were already leaving the room but, as Superman made his last remark, Marcus Driver spoke:

"Thank you, Superman, but luck has nothing to do with it…"

Superman's features assumed an intrigued expression, and he smiled in a way that denounced his amusement:

"I have a friend that says exactly the same thing."

"Is that so? Oh, well, sounds like a wise man. I'm sure we would get along if we met…"

"Yes, I believe so." Superman watched as the detectives left the room, closing the door behind them. "You could get along, if only you would give each other a chance."


	2. Chapter 2

This second chapter, I must say, took more than I though. It was supposed to be simple, and to make the story roll, but it ended as something quite different…

It turns out that there are so many consequences when the Catwoman (Selina Kyle before, now Irena Dubrovna) is shot that this chapter two is mostly about that. I think it's maybe a chapter that is a little _too_ long, but I did try to be coherent, and I just hope I didn't repeat myself.

You will also notice the presence of Robin and Nightwing here, and maybe this needs a brief explanation from me about the way I approached them. I have no intention of making them _less_ than they are, like less smart, for instance, but I also don't want any of them to look younger versions of Batman. I tried to make Tim more like a curious teenager, who is still learning (although he knows his business, of course).

Nightwing, however, is a character I find particularly interesting these days, and I wanted to show him as I see him: he is sensible and empathic, opposing to Batman's harsher, dry manners. Well, you'll see.

Anyway, I appreciated that you are following my story, and I wanted to thank the reviews I got. I hope you enjoy this second chapter, and beware that chapter three is already in progress. Again, I would be very thankful for any feedback you could give about the story, or even about my English use.

Finally, I forgot the disclaimer in chapter one. Here it goes: all character here belongs to DC (I think), but, I promise, they don't belong to me.

And now, good reading. Have fun!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

Robin got off of his motorcycle, taking a deep breath. Checking the hour, he realized he had just reached thirty hours straight without sleeping, and now, as he arrived at the familiar Batcave, he could feel the effects of the lack of sleep finally catching up. 

"Master Timothy, welcome."

"Hey, Alfred…"

The butler approached him.

"I trust you don't need medical care…"

"No, I'm fine. Not even a scratch, believe it or not…" Tim glanced around, immediately recognizing the car Bruce had used last night. "He's here already, isn't he?"

"Seems very concentrated in his work, more than usually, if possible…" Lowering his tone: "He wouldn't even let me treat the wound in his leg… Nasty injury."

"Yes, I know."

As they walked, Alfred talked:

"We are waiting for Master Richard, he is running a little late, but, well, his task involved a great deal of convincement…"

"Dick has a way with words. He'll make it."

"Yes, I believe so." They reached the main floor of the cave, where most of the technological equipment was. The noise of Batman furiously typing on the computer's keyboard was the most distinctive sound in the room, and he gave no sign of noticing Robin's presence – although Tim knew it was impossible that Batman wasn't aware of everything that happened in his cave.

Robin quietly approached Bruce, who was seated on his chair and had all his attention turned to the computer. He was running background and profile information on weapon dealers, or so it seemed to Robin. Bruce wasn't wearing his cowl or gloves, but, other than that, he appeared to be using the same uniform since the night before: he had blood all over him, the distinct scent was strong and unpleasant, dry blood that belonged to the Catwoman, Tim knew that much. And his left leg, as Alfred pointed out, was merely wrapped in what looked like improvised bandages, bandages that were already soaked with blood, so soaked that small drops were slowly falling to the floor, and a small pool of a bright red color grew near Bruce's boot.

"Hm… Hey, Bruce… Maybe you should do something about your leg, you know…?"

"Did you get it?" He asked without looking at Tim, not even for a second.

Robin sighed. _"Straight to the point, right?"_

"Yeah, I got it…" Searching the backpack he carried, Tim took from there what looked like the very ruined remains of what once was a leather suit. "Or what is left of it, anyway. It wasn't too hard, you know? I found it in the hospital's emergency room, just sitting there, in a plastic bag, waiting for someone from the police to take it…"

A brief glance was all Bruce gave it, then turning his attention to the computer again. "Good job", he said, quite unexpectedly.

"Thanks…" Encouraged by the fact that Batman had even complimented him, Tim risked a question: "By the way, why do you need it? What kind of evidence you think…"

"That's not why I asked you to take it."

Tim used a hand to scratch his own chin, a teenager's chin where no beard grew. "Okay… Now you got me."

"I didn't want anyone else to exam it, that's all."

"Why…" The answer finally hit him. "Oh… You didn't want anyone examining those clothes and discovering it's the _Catwoman's_ uniform, right?"

As Bruce grew silent, completely focused in his work, Tim realized his deduction had been an accurate one.

"So… about this leg of yours…?"

"I'm _fine_." Bruce's answer sounded more like a growl than like an actual sentence.

"Okay, okay…!" Tim crossed his arms over his chest, and, sighing, turned his attention to the computer screen. Information about dozens of people showed there, Bruce crossing words and references while working at the same time on data about what looked like a fragment of some kind of ammunition.

"What am I looking at?" Robin knew he could have understood it by himself if given time, but as Bruce constantly went back and forth on the archives, there wasn't enough time to actually _read_ something.

"Our most solid clue." The screen finally showed pictures and lab results about the diminutive piece of bullet. "The only physical evidence I was able to collect was this: a fragment from one of the projectiles that hit Selina, and, luckily, allocated in my leg."

"Oh, yes, I can see how _lucky_ you were, getting shot and all…"

"Tim…" A severe look silenced the teenager, who just mumbled a shy "sorry" before finally quieting. "Anyway, I removed the fragment inside me, and examined it carefully." He displayed a sequence of pictures, showing a huge variety of ammunitions. However, among them only one had its name highlighted. "And this is it."

"I see… So that's what hit Catwoman. And I suppose this information shortens our list of suspects by… I don't know, fifty different weapon dealers?"

"Maybe. But if this hit man bought so much as one bullet in Gotham, I'll know about it." Batman raised from his chair, and Tim noticed he had _that_ look – the scary one, the one that meant he was into it with his heart and soul, and he would _never_ let go.

* * *

The doctor, a blond woman around forty, was trying to explain it to them: 

"… and we were able to contain the blood loss, but we are still worried about her heart. The explosive ammunition caused her clavicle to shatter, and bone shards, as well as pieces of the bullets, spread in her body, causing multiple hemorrhages…"

Dr. Lark was her name, and she had been brought from Metropolis to take care of Selina. Holly wasn't sure about what was the meaning of that, but she knew it was bad. Sixteen hours straight in the operation table, and this doctor was telling them it wasn't enough? This fancy doctor from Metropolis, a blond Barbie who had cold blue eyes, was saying that Selina wasn't cured? Was she saying that…

"Is she going to die?" Holly just couldn't hold her tongue anymore; she just couldn't quietly listen to a bunch of things she didn't understand, while all she wanted to know was this: was Selina going to die?

"Oh, Holly…" Karon was by her side, holding her hand protectively, but as Holly popped the question, the young woman raised both hands to cover her face.

The doctor, however, didn't show any emotional reaction to the question, not even a blink of surprise. _"She probably gets this kind of question all the time"_, Holly considered.

"We don't know yet." There was no hesitation in the doctor's tone, although her answer sounded less mechanical and distant then when she was listing all those technical information about the surgery. "But we're doing the best we can for her, and her chances are… improving."

"I see…" That wasn't the answer Holly was looking for, but it was better than no answer at all. She put an arm around Karon, who was already sobbing.

"We'll know more in a few hours, since…"

The heavy steps of two men approaching interrupted Dr. Lark, and they walked to stand just a few feet from the doctor. Both men wore suits, but, other than that, they didn't seem to have more in common. One was a black middle-aged man, probably weighting twenty pounds more than he should, who had a big moustache that covered his upper lip, and the look of someone that doesn't let anything easily escape his attention. His companion, however, was a tall and thin man, white, in his forties, and he had a placid expression permanently imprinted on his face. Both, however, had one distinct characteristic that Holly couldn't help noticing: they smelled like cops, and were, beyond any doubt, cops.

_"Oh, great…"_ Holly couldn't think of many things that would make this day worse.

"Sorry to interrupt you, doctor…" The one that had the moustache spoke, displaying his badge as Dr. Lark coldly stared at them. "I'm Sergeant Davies, and this is Detective Crowe." He smiled to the doctor, then glancing at Holly and Karon. "Our business is with these two young ladies here."

Dr. Lark's brows moved for the first time in the last hours, a sign of her obvious contempt:

"This is a hospital, detectives, and it's hardly the place to…"

"It's okay, Dr. Lark." Holly's words caused both Karon and the doctor to stare back at her in confusion. "They are here to talk about Irena… aren't you?"

"Yes, miss." Detective Crowe, the thin one, answered her. "We just have a few questions, and we hope it won't take long…"

"We know it's bad timing", Sergeant Davies picked from where his partner left, "but to get the guy who did this to Ms. Dubrovna we should get all the information we can as soon as possible."

"All right", the doctor said. Then, turned to speak to Holly and Karon, clearly not including the detectives: "I have to go back to the O.R., but we'll keep you informed."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Excuse me."

She left, purposely ignoring the police officers. Sergeant Davies followed her with his eyes, an intrigued look on his features, while Detective Crowe spoke:

"Are you girls okay to talk?"

Holly nodded her head in agreement, while Karon just made her best to contain her sobbing.

"Need a glass of water, miss?" Davies had reached one hand to Karon's trembling shoulder.

"No, no, I'm fine…"

"Right…" Detective Crowe took from the inside pocket of his jacket a small black hardcover notebook and a pen. "So… I believe you are Holly and Karon…"

"Yes."

"And you both live with Ms. Dubrovna, sharing an apartment with her at the East End…?"

"We do."

"I see." Now Detective Crowe had one hand on his chin, and stared at the girls with a look that could be described as curious.

"We share the apartment", Holly explained, "but Irena actually owns it, and we pay nothing. She… she took us in, actually."

"How generous of her." There was no irony in the detective's tone, but Holly knew perfectly well it wasn't just an innocent remark.

"It sure is."

Sergeant Davies' expression showed how suspicious he felt about that:

"May I ask you _why_ Ms. Dubrovna was so generous? What reason did she have to take you in? What was in it for her?"

"She is _good_ person, okay?" It was Karon that suddenly snapped, her voice betraying all her anger. "She does it because she loves Holly, and there's nothing sinister about it!"

"We… we've know each other for a long time." Holly took Karon's hand into hers, a gentle and caring gesture, but also one to warn Karon she should be careful with her words. "Irena is like a big sister to me, and, for a while, she was all I had in the world."

"Big sister, right?" Crowe took notes. "You were – sorry, _are_ – close, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess." Holly knew the officer was up to something, circling around before asking the question he really wanted to ask.

"She ever mentioned someone threatening her, or someone that might wanna hurt her?"

_"Did she ever…"_ Catwoman had many enemies, more than Holly could count. And although Selina wasn't the Catwoman anymore – or at least not as a full time job – a fair number of those guys could have tracked her down and discovered her new identity. Honestly speaking, the list of suspects was as extent as the number of people Selina had robbed – when the Catwoman was on the wrong side of the law – or locked – when the Catwoman decided to go clean. Adding those numbers together, probably _thousands_ of people.

"No, she never mentioned anyone…" Better keep things simple.

The cops exchanged glances.

"I see…" Crowe raised an eyebrow. "Tell me: doesn't Ms. Dubrovna have a child? A baby girl?"

Holly sighed: "Yes."

"And where is she now? The baby?"

"She's with a friend." Karon cleaned her throat. "I think I'll have that glass of water now, detective…" She smiled.

"In a second, miss." Sergeant Davies didn't seem prone to get any water glasses now. "So, the little girl is with a _friend_? A trustworthy friend, I imagine…"

"Very. Very trustworthy."

"You know", Detective Crowe's expression was now almost intimidating, "we believe that the person who did this to Irena might go after her child."

None of the girls spoke.

"We would like to have you _and_ the baby under police security."

"No need."

"No, not at all."

"That's it!" Sergeant Davies spoke in an angry tone, a finger pointing at the girls, his other hand on his belt. "You girls are obviously hiding something! I tell you, you better spit it out all you know right now, or we'll bring you down to the station!"

"Easy, Jackson, easy…" Crow put a hand on his partner's shoulder. "You're scaring the girls…"

"You're damn right I am!"

_"Good cop, bad cop…"_, was Holly's thought. This conversation was turning out to be pretty amusing.

"Now, ladies…" Detective Crow gently smiled. "Tell us, and, please, spare us of the nonsense, will you? Where is Ms. Dubrovna's child?"

Holly glanced at Karon, who was nervously biting her nails, and considered that this would happen sooner or later. Unfortunately, it happened sooner then she thought, but still…

"Okay." She sighed. "I'll tell you where she is…"

_As Holly entered her apartment – using the window, as usually -, Karon approached her while holding Helena in her arms. _

_"Oh, thank God you're here!" Karon's eyes had the unmistakable appearance that denounced something was wrong._

_"What happened?" _

_Karon opened her mouth to answer, but another voice – a male voice – interrupted her._

_"Catwoman?", he asked, despite the fact that Holly was wearing her Catwoman's uniform at that moment. _

_"Yes." She stepped forward, putting herself between Karon and that voice coming from a dark corner in her living room. _

_"We need to talk."_

_He showed himself, approaching the pale light that was coming from the open window. A man, wearing a blue mask that covered part of his face, and a close-fitting black and blue garment, his dark hair covering part of his face and hiding his eyes in shadows; all and all, he had the general appearance of an athlete, looking more like a gymnast than the crime fighter he actually was. He was young and good-looking, for as much as Holly could see, and she could easily guess who this person was, even though they had never met before. _

_"Nightwing, isn't it?" She relaxed a bit, now convinced their visitor didn't represent an immediate threat. Still, it was pretty strange that the man was there, and quite disturbing that he knew where she lived._

_"That's right." His tone, that sounded at first dry and distant, had now a gentler modulation, almost kind. At that moment, she knew: he wasn't like Batman, not this one. Holly could perfectly see him as a man out of that uniform, probably a guy with a life, a job, a girlfriend… Yes, he was probably the best example of what Selina would call "a good kid", wasn't he? So different from the Bat, who didn't look like human at all…_

_"So… What can I do for you, Nightwing?"_

_She noticed how he hesitated before answering, and how he even bit his lower lip. "Oh, there's something wrong…!", were the words that passed through her mind. _

_He finally spoke: "I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news."_

_Holly turned to face Karon, but the other woman looked just as confused as she was herself. "He wouldn't say anything until you get home…"_

_"It's Selina, isn't it?" Holly knew it to be true. Something had happened to Selina, something bad, so bad that the Batman send one of his sidekicks to their home. _

_"She was shot", Nightwing suddenly said, and he too seemed to be very shaken by the fact. "She is alive, but in very bad shape."_

_"Oh, my…" Holly covered her face with both hands, trying to regain some control. She felt Karon's hand on her back, a touch meant as support, but not very effective, since Holly could feel how Karon trembled herself, and hear as she spoke the words that were in Holly's mind: "Selina, oh, no, Selina, what are we going to do…**"** _

_Taking a deep breath, Holly spoke in the most firm tone of voice she could fake. "Where… where is she?"_

_"Gotham Central Hospital", he promptly answered. "She is in surgery right now, and I assure you she is in good hands." _

_"I… we… we have to go there…"_

_"I understand." _

_To Holly's surprise, Nightwing stepped forward, placing an arm around her shoulders. _

_"Please, seat down." He led her to the nearest couch, than turning to Karon: "You too, miss. Please, let me help you with the baby."_

_He reached his arms, offering to take the child. Karon, however, just convulsing hug the little girl. Bothered by Karon's sudden movement, one year old Helena grumbled and called for her mother. _

_"I'm fine!" Karon walked to the couch and sat near Holly. _

_"He's just trying to help, Karon." Holly took off her Catwoman's cowl and glasses, not really caring about revealing his identity to that man. Hell, he probably already knew it, anyway. "Really, I must go to the hospital. Let me change, and…"_

_"Actually", Nightwing interrupted her, "there's something we should discuss first."_

_"I…" Holly pressed her own fingers against her temple, now realizing she had a strong headache. She was confused and shaken, and she honestly had no idea of what to do, except she knew Selina needed her, and she had to go to the hospital and be there for her. "Discuss? What… what do you mean?"_

_"You'll have difficult days ahead of you, no matter what happens to Selina… I mean, Catwoman."_

_Both women said nothing in response to that, Karon occupied in calming Helena, while Holly just waited for the rest of Nightwing's statement. _

_"She wasn't just shot, but she was shot as the Catwoman."_

_"What?" That was new information to Holly. She immediately turned to face Karon: "Did you know about that…?"_

_The other girl just opened her mouth, but no sound came out._

_"Great, Karon! That's just great!" _

_"She… she said it was important… and personal!" _

_"You could have at least toldme when I got here…! I feel like an idiot!"_

_"Ladies, ladies!" Nightwing's tone was heard above theirs. "This is not the time for this kind of discussion, I believe. We must set our priorities."_

_Again Holly and Karon turned their attention to the man standing in front of them._

_"Look", an angry Holly spoke, "I appreciate your concern, and thank you for telling us about Selina, but I think we can handle from here."_

_Nightwing crossed his arms._

_"I'm afraid is not that simple." He sighed, and for a moment his glance went from one girl to the other. "We have reason to believe the attack wasn't random, but actually a direct attempt of murder." _

_Holly shivered: "Someone trying to murder the Catwoman?" _

_"Someone trying to murder Selina Kyle." _

_"Oh, my God…" Karon was visible shocked, and again she held the baby against her chest._

_"Yes." He approached the couch where both women were, kneeling near them. "I know this must be disturbing, but we can help."_

_**"**He's really sweet…**"**, was Holly's thought. She wasn't into men, not sexually speaking, but if she was, this Nightwing guy would certainly have gotten her. "How can… how can you help? And who's 'we'?" She couldn't avoid the ironic tone in her sentence. "You and Batman?" _

_"Exactly." He didn't seem to care about her tone. "And others." He smiled, his first smile since he arrived at the apartment, and Holly was glad to see that his smile was a pleasant one, youthful and kind. "Selina has many friends, maybe more than she thinks."_

_"And more enemies too", Karon said, an undeniable bitterness in her words._

_"True. And that's why I'm here." He stood up. "I'm going to take Helena to a safer place."_

_"Take Helena…?" Holly moved her head side to side, an unconscious gesture of denial. Next to her, Karon was too surprised to say anything. "What are you talking about? She… she is not going anywhere…!"_

_"Please, Holly. Listen to me." The fact the he used her first name didn't pass unnoticed to Holly. "Whoever shot Selina probably knows who she is, where she lives, who are the people she loves. We don't know why she was shot, we don't know who did it, but I know this: if Selina survives, this guy will return to finish the job; and who knows what kind of atrocities he will be willing to do?"_

_"Still… give Helena to a stranger…"_

_"We are **not** going to do it!" Karon's words sounded definitive. _

_"Beatrice Collins." That was Nightwing's simple statement._

_"What?"_

_"Beatrice Collins." He vaguely pointed to the window. "She died yesterday, just a few blocks from here."_

_"I… I heard about it…" Holly shivered; she heard about it, and she was planning to investigate, but Selina suggested she should work in a drug dealer's case tonight. _

_"Selina was investigating it when she was shot, and Batman believes there's a connection." He pressed his lips together, hesitated for a few seconds. "Batman believes Beatrice Collins might have been killed for the sole reason of attracting Selina, only to set a trap for the Catwoman."_

_"Re… really? That's… that's so…" Karon was visible disturbed by that information._

_"That's how this guy works. And he will have no problem in use Helena if he has to." _

_**"**Damn!**"**, Holly silently cursed. He was right. He was right, and she was out of options. Truth was, she couldn't protect Helena, not like **they** could. She spoke:_

_"If we agreed on that… Where would you take her?"_

_Again Nightwing smiled: "We have just the place." _

"So, after you received a phone call from the hospital telling Irena had been shot", Detective Crowe had a distrustful and tired look on his face, and was repeating the same question he had already made twice, "you, willingly and spontaneously, decided it would be a good idea if baby Helena was left under the care of _Bruce Wayne_…"

"Yeah."

"Yes, that's right."

Sergeant Davies had his arms crossed, and he stared at both girls in disbelief:

"Tell me again: how did you even _know_ Bruce Wayne?"

"Oh, we don't!" Holly promptly answered. "_Irena_ knows Bruce Wayne, and I knew that." She paused, and briefly glanced at Detective Crowe: "We are really close, you know? Irena and I"

The detective merely nodded his head: "Of course you are."

"I found his number in Irena's cell phone, so I called him…"

"And he agreed in taking responsibility for a child he has nothing to do with?"

"Actually", Holly assumed a thoughtful expression, "I talked to his butler first. Really polite man."

"I bet…" Sergeant Davies' sarcasm was obvious.

"Anyway, Bruce Wayne was sleeping, or something like that, but when I told the butler it was an emergency, and that Irena had been shot, well, he agreed in waking up his 'master', or whatever he calls Bruce… Rich people!"

"And then you talked to Mr. Wayne, and he agreed…"

"Well, _first_ he called his lawyers. _Then_ he agreed in taking Helena."

"Right." Detective Crowe took notes. "And yet, he did it for no other reason than the pure goodness of his heart, because Ms. Dubrovna and Mr. Wayne are nothing but friends…"

"Yes."

"He's not, by any chance, Irena's _boyfriend_…?"

"No, no way!"

"Still, he troubles himself by taking care of someone else's child."

"It wouldn't be the first time, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well… Wayne is a philanthropist, right? And he did take in all those orphans, didn't he? Like… doesn't he have this boy, son of his dead neighbor, or something, living in his home right now?"

Sergeant Davis took a deep breath: "We'll see about that… I'll be sure to check this story with Mr. Wayne and his butler."

"And we'll send a couple officers to take care of your safety…"

"Again, it's not necessary…"

"_We_ think it is, miss." Detective Crowe had an eyebrow raised, and stared the young women gravely.

"All right…" Holly agreed with a sigh.

"I think that's all, then... for today, that is."

"Yes, we'll probably be back for more questions." Crowe took a pipe from his pocket, and placed it between his lips. "Maybe then you'll have better answers."

"Let's go, Crowe." Sergeant Davis turned to leave. "And good night to you girls."

"Bye…" Karon waved briefly, trying to not betray her relief for the fact the detectives were leaving.

They heard as Davies and Crowe walked down the corridor, and when they finally entered the elevator. Only then, when the detectives were surely out of sight and unable to hear them, Karon spoke:

"Think they suspect something?"

"Maybe." Holly showed with a movement of her shoulders that she wasn't caring so much. "But that's the thing with the police: they can't do much with suspicions, just with facts."

"I guess you're right."

Holly was biting her lower lip: "I hope I am. And I _hope_ Batman gets this guy soon, or we'll be facing lots of trouble…"

* * *

There was something about Intensive Care Units: it was one of the rare places that the Batman didn't dare enter. 

Across the street, hidden in the shadows of the statues of gargoyles that adorned the buildings, he could see the hospital and wonder…

Dr. Lark, who had come to Gotham to treat Selina because of Bruce Wayne's insistence and, undeniably, because of the indecent amount of money he offered her, had called Wayne Manor just before midnight. She spoke with Alfred – "Mr. Wayne is in a business meeting", he explained – and describe to him in details how the surgery had gone, and how, amazingly, Ms. Dubrovna survived the procedure. According to Alfred, who had, of course, immediately reproduced the conversation through the cave's communicator, Selina was in the I.C.U. of Gotham's Central Hospital, with one of her kidneys irremediably lost; on the bright side, however, her heart was working, and the multiple hemorrhages seemed to be under control. Still, she was in coma, and the doctors had no idea of when – if ever – she was going to wake up. Considering she would survive, of course - and Dr. Lark most optimistic guess was that Selina had a 50/50 chance of, somehow, live through all this.

He couldn't actually _see_ her right now (no windows in Intensive Care), but, if he closed his eyes, he would have a faithful picture of her. He could imagine her lying on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, tubes that would go inside her, needles piercing her skin. She would be immobile, nothing but her chest would move, slowly going up and down, up and down… Her body would be scarred, holes and sewed cuts, catheters coming out of her, machines making noises and telling… telling how _alive_ she was.

And he, all he could think about was how _hurt_ she was, how her body – body he once loved and touched, a body he knew himself, her beautiful body, he could see it in his mind if he wanted too, all the lovely, all the sensual details… - had been violated, broken, harmed. He could only wonder about the pain and suffering, but, right now, he had no way of relieving it.

_"I'm so sorry…"_

He wanted to do _something_ for her, and yet, there wasn't much else he could do. He was trying to play his part as Batman, looking for the one that had done that, looking for the murderer, looking forward to find him (or her), wishing he could have a few moments alone with this person, _just-a-few-moments_, and he would teach this hit man one or two things about pain… _"Wrong!"_, his mind would warn him; he had no right. No, when he finally find this guy – oh, he was going to find him, no matter what, nothing, no one on this Earth would be able to avoid this – Batman would do what he had to. No, he couldn't _hurt_ the criminal, at least not as much as he wanted to, not as much as he _wished_ he could hurt, _punish_ the person that did that to Selina…

_"But if she dies…"_

She couldn't. She wouldn't. No, Selina can't die.

His mind wondered about Helena, Selina's kid. A baby girl, cute, adorable, maybe more than most baby girls are; he wouldn't be able to tell because, truth to be told, he didn't know much about babies. However, he knew about Helena, he knew about that child, whose mother was now lying in a hospital bed, Selina, Helena's _mother_. Selina, a _mother_. He had problems, at first, with accepting the woman he knew as Catwoman, the woman that once was his _girlfriend,_ now had a child. A child changes everything, he knew that much. Changes everything for a regular, ordinary person, and it sure would change everything for a crime-fighter, for a masked hero.

It changes everything for two people that cared about each other as they did…

And yet, he now thought about Helena, baby Helena that would at this exactly moment be sleeping in one of the rooms in his own house, the child that had Selina's eyes, the little girl he was now so worried about, so worried that he told Dick and Tim to stay in the house and watch over her. His chest ached at the thought that something could happen to that baby, ached almost as much as the thought that Selina could… she could…

_"Please, don't let her die…"_

He never really believed in God. He never really believed in greater forces that would perform miracles. He never _asked_ anyone or anything for a divine, magical intervention. All his life he believed in himself, and he believed in strategy, and he believed in training. He never blamed intangible things like destiny or fate; he never even counted on this thing people call luck. He was one to believe in responsibility and in using his own hands to model the world. And, most certainly, he never, _never_ considered he would one night look up to the night sky and beg the favor of unknown forces.

Like he was doing now.

"Whatever it takes, just don't let her die."

And he hoped with all his heart that _someone_ was listening.


	3. Chapter 3

And so comes another chapter…

This chapter 3 advances the story a bit, I think, especially in the last part; also, I wanted to explore how are Batman's relations with the police, since, after all, he is not being the most collaborative vigilante in this particular case. I'm making a point here in showing that Gotham's police isn't made of idiotic and dependable cops, and, although they are not geniuses, they do play a relevant part in this story.

Also, considering Batman and his problems with the police (I guess that's the case here), I'm trying to show how hard this can be for him, this paradox: you're trying to make justice prevail, and yet, you must keep information from the police, and sometimes even lie to them. That's gotta be painful…!

One last remark is about Jason Bard, a character that is shown here… Like I said, this story is placed after Infinite Crises, in the context of "One Year Later", and Jason Bard is one of the additions we have seen then. He is actually an old character; former cop, Barbara's ex-boyfriend, now a private detective. I first saw him, however, in James Robinson's arc, "Face the Face", when Batman officially hires him – the point is to have someone to do the detective work during day, when Batman is not around. Now, I'm no fan of Robinson's arc, but I do like Jason. I guess the idea makes sense, and Bard seems a pretty smart guy, with an interesting sense of humor. I'm introducing him in the story, and I hope you like it.

Anyway, I appreciate that you're reading the story, and a special thanks to all of you that left me a review. Please, continue doing it, because it's always helpful and it's also a big encouragement. Feedbacks are always welcome, even if it's a complain…

Now, please, enjoy the story, and have fun!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

"Ti – m. Can you say _Tim_?" 

"Al – fed!"

Dick Grayson approached Tim, who was seated on the floor, holding little Helena with his arms stretched, the child giggling above his head.

"Did she just say _Alfred_?"

"Yeah…" Tim agreed, his features denouncing his disappointment. "I've spent all day with her, trying to teach her how to speak 'Tim', but look at that…"

"Al – fed!" The little girl smiled in undeniable happiness, one of his small fingers pointing to the old butler, who was now crossing the living room to answer the phone.

"See?!?" Tim lowered Helena to the floor, and the child immediately risked a few short and clumsy steps towards Alfred, her small arms extended in his direction, her small hands reaching to grab the fabric of the butler's trousers.

"She sure loves Alfred…" Dick had his arms crossed, unable to keep himself from smiling. Not only Helena was a truly adorable child, but Tim's frustration was also as unexpected as was amusing. "I guess you still have lots to learn about childcare, Tim."

"Pay no attention to him, Master Timothy." Alfred had now taken Helena in his arms, and the child seemed to be deeply interested in his tie. "The little miss is very fond of me, indeed, but I assure you it has nothing to do with my abilities as a… 'nanny'."

"Is that so? What's your secret, then?"

"The accent, young sir."

"The accent…?" Tim nodded his head in distrust and exasperation. "Oh, be serious, Alfred…!"

"I _am_ being 'serious', Master Timothy." Carrying the baby with him, Alfred turned to leave the room. "Children appreciate the cadence of my voice, and well spoken words are music to all ears. Now, if you excuse me, Miss Helena and I have a bottle to prepare."

They watched as Alfred left with Helena, the girl giggling and mumbling with obvious joy, and even the usually impassible Alfred seemed to be smiling.

"Three days in the house and she already got us all…" Dick offered one hand to help Tim get back on his feet again.

"She did, didn't she?" Now standing, Tim was patting his own clothes to remove the dirt. "Guys like us, who are usually dealing with crimes and violence…"

"… now turned into sitters. And enjoying it!"

Tim soundly laughed: "Yeah, yeah… I guess we are." He placed a hand on his chin, now assuming a wondering expression. "Although, I must say, it has been two nights in a roll at home, and going to the third… I'm getting rusty already."

"I hear you…" Dick nodded his head in agreement. "But we gotta be ready for anything; if someone actually comes for Helena…"

"I know. We're here to _protect_ her…"

They both stood in the living room in silence, listening Alfred and Helena's sounds in the kitchen. The child seemed to be amused by the butler's attempt of convincing her to eat something, and her musical laughs echoed in the giant and usually silent mansion.

"_Laughs!_ Can't remember when was the last time we had so much of it in this place…", was Dick's comment.

"Me neither… Too bad Bruce is not here to see this; I wish we could see his face."

"Yes, well, you know Bruce, Tim. He's working hard to find the people that hurt Selina; it's the only thing he _can_ do that will actually make him feel better."

"I know, I know…" Now Tim had his brows wrinkled, and his features betrayed any attempt the boy made to hide signs of bitterness in his tone. "Still, he hasn't been home ever since Helena arrived. I _know_ he is working, but… don't you think Selina would like him to pay attention to her daughter?"

Dick sighed, taking sometime to think before answering:

"Maybe you're right… Still, Selina understands Bruce in a way not even we can; so, I'm sure she would understand."

"If you say so…" Tim seemed to discard the matter with a gesture of his shoulders. "I wonder where he is, anyway. I know he is _busy_ during nights, but he didn't come home even during days, not to sleep, not even to use the computer or the lab in the cave…"

"He called earlier… Said he was 'occupied'."

"Yeah, but he wasn't in Wayne Enterprises either. I know; I called the office."

If Dick was disturbed by Tim's information, he didn't show. His only reaction was briefly raising one eyebrow, and nothing else.

"Don't worry Tim…" He placed one hand on Tim's back, and smiled at the younger man in reassurance. "Whatever Bruce is doing, I'm sure he does it because he feels it's very important."

* * *

The nurse was anything but that kind of nurse that so often has a place in a man's sexual fantasy; no, this one not only wasn't pretty or kind. This one, actually, was a man. 

"I'm Barry", he said, that man that had 6'8'' feet high, large biceps, and a disturbing resemblance with Mike Tyson. "What can I do for you?"

Detective Marcus Driver raised a hand to dry the sweat on his forehead. _"Damn, it's hot today!"_ He was used to work during nights, but, today, because there was a reunion in the department about that hitman case, he had an early start. He _could_ have gone home and returned a few hours later, but he decided it was time to do something he had been trying for two days, and without success.

"I'm looking for Mr. Wayne… _Bruce_ Wayne."

Ever since Davies and Crowe took the statement of the two young women that lived with Miss Dubrovna, Marcus Driver had been trying to reach Bruce Wayne. He just wanted, at first, to check if the girls were telling the truth about Wayne and Miss Dubrovna knowing each other, what would probably be a very interesting story, no doubt. The department had sent two police officers and a car to stay in Wayne Manor, for the protection of Ms. Dubrovna's daughter, and Romy had been at the mansion and had interviewed the butler – "very polite man!" -, but no one had been able to locate Bruce Wayne then, and, to this day, not yet. He was either occupied, or working, or dating, or sleeping. Point is, he was never avaible to talk, not at home, not in the office. The policemen that were at Wayne's Manor never saw his car go in or out, and Marcus was now convinced Mr. Wayne hadn't been home ever since his house went under surveillance. Why? He had no idea. Maybe just because he was an eccentric rich playboy; or, maybe, the man had something to hide. Whatever the case, Detective Marcus Driver intended to find out.

The hunt for Mr. Wayne had ended in an unexpected way, all because a tabloid reporter phoned Driver and asked him to confirm if the latest victim of "The Hitman" (papers were loving the case) was Bruce Wayne's girlfriend. Marcus, of course, told the reporter to get lost and all, but the angry guy just yelled back something like "Wayne's car is in the hospital's garage for days, so just do us a favor and confirm…". And it was then that Driver hung up the phone and went to Gotham's Central Hospital as fast as he could.

And now he was at the entrance of the I.C.U. area, facing the biggest and meanest nurse he had ever seen.

"Are you a journalist?" Nurse Barry asked while narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms – damn, he had big arms! -, and, of course, Marcus was immensely glad by the fact that he actually wasn't a journalist.

"No, I'm not." He smiled, and took his badge out of his pocket. "I'm Marcus Driver, detective, Gotham PD."

Barry showed no sign that he approved that in any way. "What do you want?"

The nurse's tone was not only rude, but intimidating.

"Like I _said_, I'm looking for a Bruce Wayne." Barry's attitude was finally bothering him too much for Marcus just accept it in silence. "Maybe you know who I'm talking about… It's the billionaire all the reporters are looking for…?"

"I know _who_ you're looking for… I asked _what_ you want with him!"

"Are you a nurse or a secretary?"

Barry's eyes widened, injected with undeniable anger:

"I'm a trained professional, post-graduated in Intensive Care nursery, highly specialized in…"

"Barry?" The nurse was interrupted by a strong, solemn voice. "Is there a problem?"

Nurse Barry suddenly seemed to be aware of his tone and attitude, and assumed a more placid expression. However, his eyes were still angrily glancing at Detective Driver.

"No, no problem, Mr. Wayne…"

Driver smiled to himself, satisfied to see he had finally reached his goal. _"Here you are, Mr. Wayne…"_ The detective turned to this third man that had just arrived, briefly looking and taking mental notes about his first impressions of Bruce Wayne. Of course, he had seen Wayne before, in newspapers pictures or even from a distance, in special and public events, but never so close. There he was, Gotham's royalty… And, to Driver's surprise, he wasn't at all like the detective assumed he would be.

To begin with, this Bruce Wayne in front of him didn't look like the rich playboy Driver was used to imagine. Instead of the glamorous and shallow man he expected, Marcus saw a person that carried a tired and earnest expression, clearly someone that – at least at that moment – took life very seriously.

Other details didn't escape the detective's look; he took notice of the expensive but discreet clothes, and though really curious that Mr. Wayne had his right hand wrapped in bandages. And, most interesting of all, Driver realized that, as he measured the man standing in front of him, Bruce Wayne actually seemed to do the same, as his dark blue eyes went from Driver's badge to the gun he carried under his jacket, and than lowering to the almost imperceptible volume of the small gun he had hidden on his calf.

"I'm Detective Marcus Driver, sir, Gotham PD."

Bruce Wayne didn't react to that in anyway, standing exactly were he was, still silently observing the detective.

"I understand you're Bruce Wayne, sir", he said in a tone that didn't quite hide how offended he was by Wayne's silence and lack of reaction.

"Yes", was his simple answer.

"I would like to ask you a few questions, sir…"

"Right now?"

"Yes, sir, right now." Marcus risked a shy smile: "Perhaps this is not the most adequate place for us to talk, but… you're a difficult man to reach, Mr. Wayne."

_"You brought this to yourself…"_, was Marcus mental remark. He wasn't a fan of hospitals either, but he wouldn't give up on this opportunity.

Barry, the nurse, had something to say about that:

"If you want me to, Mr. Wayne, I can call security…"

"Yes, _Barry_, call security… Let's see how many lawsuits your hospital can afford…"

"This won't be necessary." It was Wayne who interrupted the detective, and now a minor movement of his eyebrows showed the discussion had affected him. "We can talk, detective."

"Excellent." Marcus was still resentfully glancing at Barry.

"We can go to the cafeteria down stairs." Turning to the nurse, he politely asked. "Please, call me if…"

"No problem, Mr. Wayne. Anything changes, I'll be sure to call you."

Both the detective and Wayne left in silence, and remained like that until they reached the elevators. There Marcus again watched the quiet and earnest Bruce Wayne, who now seemed to be absorbed in thoughts, both hands inside his pockets, and an unreadable expression had taken his features. Was he worried? Upset? _Sad_? And why? Was it because he was about to be questioned by a police officer? Or because of Ms. Dubrovna?

By the way, what was his relationship with Irena Dubrovna, anyway?

Detective Driver again realized there was so much he didn't know about this case, and the more he investigated, more strange the case turned out to be.

The elevator arrived, and they entered it together, side by side. There was no one else inside, and having a twelve floor descend ahead of them, Marcus concluded it was a good place to start with his questions, an interrogatory disguised as casual conversation.

"How's Ms. Dubrovna doing?"

Wayne blinked twice before answering, but no other muscle in his face moved.

"In coma." He didn't turn to face the detective, but briefly glanced at him with the corner of his eye. "Her heart is resisting, though. Doctors are optimistic."

"Oh." Marcus couldn't avoid thinking about all the people he had seen in similar situation, and how many had never pulled through. "That's good news then. I guess."

"I suppose." But everything in Bruce Wayne pointed to the fact that he saw nothing good in the situation.

In a few moments of awkward silence they reached the hospital's cafeteria, an extensive salon, with tables and people irregularly spread all over it. Marcus couldn't help noticing all the looks turning to them, something to be expected, considering that Bruce Wayne was fairly known in Gotham. Detective Driver, however, was very comfortable with his status as an anonymous citizen, and the situation was to him very strange. He just lowered his head, and followed Wayne to the table of his choice.

"Coffee, detective?"

"Hm… no…" It didn't escape Marcus that the question showed the curious inversion he was living. Usually, in interrogatories at the Police Station, he was the one that would offer to the intimidated witness or suspect something to drink. And now, now he was the one feeling uncomfortable. _"Well played, Mr. Wayne… well played."_ To his surprise, Detective Driver felt he didn't resent this maneuver as much as he actually admired it.

Marcus sat facing Bruce Wayne, whose expression hadn't changed in any way.

"What can I do for you, detective?" Wayne had now placed both hands over the table, fingertips touching each other.

"Well, Mr. Wayne… To begin with, I was hoping you could clarify for me certain circumstances that are still unexplained."

"And what circumstances would that be?"

"Just to name one, how, for example, you ended up with Ms. Dubrovna's daughter under your care."

For the first time since they met, Marcus Driver detected a flash of anger in Bruce Wayne's eyes.

"I understand this subject has already been exhaustively discussed, Detective Driver."

"Not with you, Mr. Wayne."

A cold glance was all Marcus received for this remark.

"Well", the detective proceeded, "could you tell me what's the nature of your relationship with Irena Dubrovna?"

"I fail to understand how this could interest anyone but tabloids…"

"Mr. Wayne." Driver did the best he could to keep a low tone of voice, although he made no effort to sound polite. "If you're not going to collaborate, you could do us both a favor and say so. You don't like my questions? Fine, don't answer it, go call you layers and ask for advice. But the only people you're harming are Ms. Dubrovna and…"

"We are _friends_." Bruce's glance was still cold and his features had not altered, but his tone spoke of an obvious displeasure. "We are only friends. Now, you tell _me_: do you believe me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you believe me? It's a simple question."

Detective Driver stared the man in front of him, and he knew Wayne was trying to prove something. How peculiar, how strange that man was; he never seemed to be afraid, but he never seemed to be completely sincere.

"Do I believe you and Ms. Dubrovna are just friends?" And as Wayne briefly nodded to confirm the question: "Sorry, no. No, I don't believe you."

Bruce leaned back on his chair. "What's the point of this conversation, then?"

"When people lie, Mr. Wayne, it tells a lot about them."

_When Batman heard his approach, he said nothing, merely turning to face the arrival, acknowledging this person's presence._

_"Hello", Superman greeted. _

_They were now on the same rooftop they had met three nights ago, the dramatic night Catwoman was shot. Landing to stand near Batman, Superman glanced around:_

_"You cleaned this place." There were signs of disapproval to be heard in his statement. _

_"I did." Batman's cape seemed to spontaneously move, swiftly wrapping around his whole body, concealing all but his masked face from sight, mixing man and shadows. "Couldn't risk leave something behind… something that would connect Selina to the Catwoman."_

_"Right… And you also destroyed evidence."_

_"I collected all the needed physical evidence first, obviously."_

_"For you. Took all the evidence with you." His criticism was now obvious. "What about the police? They don't even know where Selina was shot…"_

_"What are you suggesting?" _

_Superman sighed, and gave Batman no answer. _

_"I appreciate your help, Clark, but this is Gotham. My city, and here we do things my way." _

_"Your way, Bruce?" Superman knew how much Batman hated when he used his civilian name when they were in Gotham' streets. "Right now, your way of handling things obligated people, including myself, to lie to the police, steal evidence, and obstruct justice!"_

_Batman clenched his teeth, making his best to contain the wave of anger that threatened his self-control. _

_"Poor Clark…" His tone was full of venomous sarcasm. "Stained his boy scout reputation by lying to the police…"_

_"How dare you?" Superman spoke in a whisper, an angry and resentful whisper. "You're an ungrateful…"_

_"No, don't throw the responsibility of your acts on me! If you lied, you did it because you wanted to… I asked you no such thing!" _

_"And you would never have to…!" Now Superman was floating a few inches above the roof, his anger unconsciously lifting him from the ground. "You didn't ask me to lie, but you asked for my help! And you knew I would help you in anyway I could, you knew I wouldn't do something that could harm you or Selina…!" _

_"What's your complain, then?" Batman retreated a few steps to a shadier corner, his shapes indiscernible in the darkness. "You know we couldn't tell them the truth, you know it would only make things worst!"_

_"You're always so worried about hiding, Bruce…" Already flying above Batman's head, Superman turned his back on him. "I wonder if, to you, hiding hasn't become more important than doing the right thing…"_

"You're right, detective." Wayne's emotionless tone fitted perfectly his impassible features. "A lie can actually be very revealing."

Detective Driver said nothing in response to that, noticing how the man facing him was now leaning forward, forearms over the table ahead, an undecipherable look in his eyes.

"What is it that you really want to know, detective?"

Marcus smiled. Yes, no doubt Bruce Wayne had overcome all his expectations.

"Where to begin…" Driver stared the man he knew as the billionaire Bruce Wayne, wondering if he would be able to take something out of those cold eyes that stared back at him, and if he even _should_ ask the questions he really wanted to. Truth was, no matter his suspicions, no matter his curiosity, Marcus Driver was still a police officer, and his job was pretty simple: to serve and protect. And, right now, serve and protect meant finding the person that attacked two women, both mothers of young children, both brutally hurt, one dead, another about to die.

Also, Marcus Driver himself had something to confess – although he never would; he had lied to Mr. Wayne. In fact, Driver had no reason to interrogate that man. He didn't need his answers; he didn't need to talk with someone that, as Wayne brilliantly pointed out, he would never be able to completely believe. Honestly speaking, Driver didn't suspect that Wayne had something to do with the crimes… No, honestly speaking, Driver now was sure that Bruce Wayne just really cared about Irena Dubrovna, that's all. Hell, maybe Wayne was in love with the woman, that wouldn't be a surprise. No, not to Marcus Driver, who knew one or two things about being in love.

Still… all about the case was strange. All was just… _unclear_. No motive, no exact time, not even the _place_ where Irena Dubrovna was shot had been found. And the involvement of all those masked heroes – Superman _and_ Batman – no doubt meant something. Just like the suspicious disappearance of the clothes Ms. Dubrovna was wearing when she was shot, clothes that vanished before they could be send to police laboratories, making this the first case Marcus had ever worked that presented almost _zero_ physical evidence…

There was also Batman's silence, who had given nothing to the police, although he clearly was involved, probably had even _seen_ what happened. There were all the peculiar things about Ms. Dubrovna's life, like the fact that she didn't seem to have a job, but clearly had enough money to provide for herself, her daughter, and even that young girl that lived with her. And even though she had enough money for that, she lived in the East End, one of Gotham's worst neighborhoods…

Yeah, no doubt there were many contradictions. Bruce Wayne in that hospital, that was a contradiction. Marcus had thought long and deeply about the connection between Wayne and Irena, considering many unflattering options about the victim, but the poor woman didn't seem to conduct any sort of illegal business, quite the contrary. All the statements so far showed Irena was a good person, someone that took interest in her local and almost abandoned community…

Strange. Everything was so very strange.

"I really want to get the guy that did this to Ms. Dubrovna, Mr. Wayne. That's all." He sighed. "But, right now, I don't see a way to find him. We have _nothing_ to work with, and any information you could provide would be helpful."

"I'm sorry, but…"

"Please." Detective Driver interrupted him by raising a hand. "Please, let me finish."

Bruce did nothing but silently stare at the detective.

"You don't have to say anything, just listen." Marcus changed his tone, now speaking almost in a whisper. "I have no idea of how much you actually _know_ about Ms. Dubrovna, and, although I've many suspicions, I've no proof about anything. But I tell you this: someone is making my job even harder than it has to be. Now, maybe this someone is doing this to _protect_ Ms. Dubrovna, but this is also ruining any chances we, the police, could have of getting the guy who did this to Irena _and_, let me remind you, to Beatrice Collins."

"Detective, I don't see how…"

"Wait, Mr. Wayne." Driver sighed, and slowly ran his fingers through his own hair. "Look, I already told you: you don't have to _say_ anything. I know, I just _know_ you're involved. And I know you're in this because you want to help Ms. Dubrovna. I've no idea of how aware you're about what is going on, maybe you know it all, maybe you're just… just being used. I don't know. But _you_ know that someone is covering Irena Dubrovna's tracks, and I think you know who this someone is."

A silent and stern glance was all Detective Driver received.

"I see what's going on here, Mr. Wayne. I see what _he_ is doing, and there's nothing I can do to stop him… However, since you're part of all this, and you seem to be a good man, and seem to care about Irena, I must ask you…"

Bruce Wayne hadn't move a muscle, so immobile that Marcus wondered if the man was even breathing.

"Tell _him_ to trust us, and tell him to let us do our job. That's all I'm asking for. I promise we are not going to look too deep into Ms. Dubrovna's life, that's a _promise_. She seems to be a good woman, and I don't care about the rest. I _just_ want to get this damned hitman. I just don't want another good person dieing for no reason two blocks away from home. That's all."

The detective spent a few seconds looking into Wayne's eyes, hoping to see some reaction… but nothing showed.

"Well…" Marcus concentrated in controlling the growing frustration inside him, a feeling that was about to make him scream in rage. He had hoped and expected many things from Bruce Wayne after his speech was over, but he didn't count on that complete lack of response.

Silence followed Driver's words, and silence remained for a long, awkward minute. The detective searched and searched for something in Bruce Wayne that would tell if his speech had somehow touched, even reached the conscious of that man, that peculiar man, who had the most stern, grim eyes Marcus had ever seen. In the end, it just seemed to Marcus Driver that his words had fallen in deaf ears; an impression he confirmed when Wayne finally spoke:

"If there's nothing else, detective…"

Marcus couldn't help himself: he nodded his head in what was an expression of his disapproval. "No, I guess there's nothing else, Mr. Wayne." He waved his hand. "You can go. I don't want to waste your time anymore…"

"Excuse me."

Detective Driver just followed Bruce Wayne with his glance as the man walked out of the cafeteria, both hands in his pockets, regular and firm steps that carried him to the elevator. Driver watched as the man waited for the elevator, now with arms crossed over his chest, his eyes staring nothing in particular, and eventually smiling politely to a nurse that greeted him. He kept his eyes in Bruce Wayne until he entered the elevator, now thinking that, in the end, that man was still a cold billionaire that had to have things his own way, never stepping an inch out of his way for anyone. As the elevator door closed, Marcus realized he _hated_ Bruce Wayne.

And inside the elevator, alone, Bruce took a deep breath, and raised a hand to briefly cover his eyes. There, where no one could hear, he finally spoke what was in his mind:

"I'm tired." The words escaped in a painful whisper. "I'm so damn tired."

* * *

"Neighbor said she heard strange noises three nights ago." Jason Bard had both hands in his jacket's pocket, his right shoulder against the doorframe. "That's when Irena Dubrovna was shot, right?" 

"Yes." The answer was short and dry, a sound so harsh that seemed to Bard that could cut through him.

"Then, says the neighbor, it started to smell bad." Jason walked around the living room of the small apartment, avoiding the dry blood on the floor. "I would have waited for you before coming in, but I feared someone would call the police, and then we would have to go through all that bureaucracy… Figured you wanna have a look before any one comes and… you know, 'pollutes' the crime scene."

"You did right, Bard."

"One does what one can…" Jason was now facing one of the apartment's walls, the same wall Batman carefully studied. He watched it for a few moments, that confusion of symbols and the message - in a language that seemed to be Arabic -, all written in dark, red blood. "Any idea what this is?"

Batman just seemed absorbed in his work, closely examining every inch of the horrible signs. "Yes." Still the same dry tone.

"And I don't suppose you could share this knowledge, right?"

There was no answer; Batman's attention was now in a particular point of the wall, his gloved fingers touching it like he was searching for something. He pressed it carefully, slowly, and then…

A subtle sound, an almost inaudible _click_, and Batman was opening what seemed to be a secret compartment in the wall. He completely removed a perfectly squared piece of the wall, actually a steel plaque camouflaged with plaster, and behind it there was a much bigger hole; inside it, there was what Jason Bard would define as an arsenal.

"Wow…" Bard couldn't avoid the expression of surprise and shock. He was now looking at a collection of rifles and accessories for guns, ammunition of many sorts, knives, googles, piles of money, and even other stuff that he couldn't identify or guess what was. "Wow! That's…"

Batman had immediately reached for one of the ammunition boxes, taking one of the large bullets in it, and examining it attentively. "Yes", he cut Jason's sentence, "that's the man we are looking for."

"You mean, that _was_ the man we are looking for, right?"

He turned to face the dead body behind it, or, more precisely, the pieces of dead body that lay on the floor. Head there, an arm here, one leg a few feet away… The guy had been butchered in a way Jason Bard had never even dreamed a human being could. Not only the man had been dismembered, but what had been left of his body was an indiscernible confusion of ruined and cauterized flesh, suggesting the guy had suffered burns and even had been skinned… tortured. No need to be a genius to figure out he had been tortured. Just look at the expression on that head, and you could tell death hadn't been a jolly ride for the guy. Just look at those scared, shocked eyes, and the twisted mouth… Horror. Pure horror and pain.

"Any idea who did that to him?" Bard had finally taken a handkerchief from his pocket, and now held it against his mouth and nose. Not only the sight, but the smell in the apartment was getting unbearable.

Batman was now standing, eyes again focused on the wall ahead, on all the symbols and signs. "Yes", he answered, and the word carried resentment and disgust.

"Good…" Jason recognized the fury in Batman's response, and concluded it wouldn't be the best moment to ask who, after all, did that. He simply asked: "So, should I call the cops? Are you done here?"

"Almost." His tone turned into a cold and distant sound, and no one could suppose any emotion behind it. "Call them in ten minutes. Ask for Detective Marcus Driver, in the Major Crime Units."

"Driver? Didn't know you had friends in the MCU." Bard let a brief smirk escape, only to realize that Batman stared at him in complete silence and disapproval. "Sorry… Ahm… So… What should I tell them when they get here?"

"The truth." Batman had again turned his attention to the wall.

"Really? The _whole_ truth? Even how you got the information about this place?"

No answer came from Batman, as he was now, apparently, taking pictures of the wall with a diminutive camera.

"You broke many jaws and arms in that bar… I mean, yeah, those guys probably deserved, but…"

"Tell them the truth, Bard."

Jason sighed. "You're the boss… I'll wait the ten minutes and then I'll make the call." He turned to leave the apartment. "Now, if you excuse me, I'll wait down stairs… Don't wanna be in your way, or throw up on your evidence."

Batman heard Bard's steps as he left, the sound distancing more and more. Yes, Jason was right; the smell was almost unbearable, a mix of old blood, putrid flesh, and burned human skin. He too would like to leave the place as fast as he could, and yes, he should be able to do it by now. He had taken enough pictures, collected samples of blood, and he would take with him one or two bullets from the ammunition he found in the wall. Yes, he would work in that evidence, even though he already knew all he needed to know…

What kept him inside the apartment, however, was the same thing that had given him all the answers he needed. The same thing that now filled his chest with cold anger, and frustration, and rage.

Again he read the phrase, the sentence written in blood on the wall, the message that, he knew, had been put there to no other eyes but his:

_"To traitors, the punishment; The Demon's punishment is no other but death. The Bat, be warned: justice has been done. The Demon's justice, the supreme and final justice."_

The Demon.

Batman knew exactly who he should look for now. He knew who had sent the message, and his target now had a face, his enemy had a name. A name he so many times before thought about with respect and care, someone that hadn't always been one of his opponents, someone he once considered a _friend_, someone he once had feelings for…

Now he thought about her with hate.

_"I'll find you"_, he silently promised. He would find her. He wouldn't rest until those that hurt Selina were punished. _Every single one_.

And this time, he wouldn't let _Talia_ escape.


	4. Chapter 4

This took forever, I know… Sorry about that. However, after a looooong time, I'm working in this story again, and I think I'll even have the next chapter soon (by soon I mean in less then _months_, maybe in a few weeks).

There isn't much to explain here. Batman out of Gotham… Jason Bard dealing with cops… I wanted this chapter to have less angst, and I wanted Barbara Gordon to be in it. Oh! And I wanted GPD detectives to look better than in the last chapters.

There's Talia too, and I would like to know how you feel about her. Must say I was never a big fan, but tried my best to make her… well, herself. Mind you, this is Talia from Morrison's run in Batman, the current crazy terrorist, not Bruce's girl Talia.

And, before you ask, no, no Damian.

Anyway, hope you have fun, and hope you guys understand this chapter is simple, because I'm getting use to write again. Be nice.

Have fun!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

He entered the plane without even asking for her permission.

Luckily, she had placed cameras on the outside, and had her eyes on the door when he finally got in.

"You didn't have to break into my plane, you know?" Barbara Gordon stared at the invader with a look of obvious censure.

He closed the door behind him, and she saw as he assumed a more relaxed position: "Hello, Barbara."

She nodded her head, clearly reproving him, but a half-smiled showed in her lips.

"Hi, Bruce…" She moved her wheelchair closer to him, trying to have a better look of the man she knew as Batman. "How are you doing?"

The question came in a tone that was more worried than she meant it to sound. She noticed how he resented that, his body moving a few inches away from her, the cape closing around him, his lips suddenly pressed together. Signs she had taken years to understand, but now unspoken signs she could read so well. "_Bruce, Bruce…_", she thought to herself, "_you'll never change, will you?_"

"I'm here because I need something."

There he was, speaking to her in his husky Batman voice.

"Really, Bruce, you don't have to use this tone with me." She took a deep breath, making it audible enough to him. "Actually, you don't even have to wear this cowl…"

"This is not a social visit, Barbara."

"It should be." She smiled. "If you want something from me, the social visit works better."

He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, and Barbara could sense his hesitation. However, when he spoke again, he sounded gentler:

"I know I haven't been around."

"Well, this _is_ Metropolis. I don't _expect_ to see you around."

"Still… We haven't spoken in a while."

"True." Barbara looked down for a moment. "But I guess we are both to blame for that."

"Yes, you're right." He raised both hands to his cowl, removing his mask in a swift move. "But I'm sorry for it anyway."

Now she looked at him directly into his eyes, eyes she was somewhat surprise to find so tired and weary. In fact, now that she had a good view of Bruce's face, Barbara could easily recognize signs of exhaustion in her friend and former mentor, undeniable traces of the continuous hunt he had put himself into.

"Bruce…" Again she sounded more worried than she intended to. "God, how long since you've slept?"

He gave her the look; the look that said "don't go there, Barbara."

"You'll kill yourself; you know that, don't you?"

"I'm _fine_, Barbara. Please, you're sounding like…"

"Dick? Alfred? _Tim_? Like all of them, I guess."

"Like you _don't know me_, that's what I was going to say." He turned to look at the many computer monitors Barbara had in her plane, each one showing a different sort of information, numbers, names, or images. Bruce seemed to take interest in a list of suspicious money transfers that had taken place in Asian banks during night.

"It's because I know you that I'm worried." She studied his chiseled profile, the concentrated gaze he focused on that computer screen. "I've heard about Selina, and…"

"Then you know I'm only doing what I have to."

"And what is it that you _have_ to do?"

His glance to her was a cold one. "If you didn't know, you wouldn't be in this plane."

Barbara sighed: "I know _my_ reasons, Bruce… If I knew yours, maybe I wouldn't have left Gotham."

A minor movement in his eyebrows was all the reaction he let himself show. However, he again covered his face with his dark mask, and, abandoning whatever he was doing in the computer, turned his back on Barbara and prepared to leave.

"_Shit…_" She bit her lower lip, a habit that denounced her regret for the words that just seemed to have jumped out of her mouth. "_Now I was the one that ruined it._"

"No, Bruce, wait…!" Moving the chair, she had reached his cape with a hand, grabbing it in a firm grasp.

"Let go, Barbara."

His tone, surprisingly, was neither harsh nor angry. Still, her own voice failed her:

"I… I didn't mean…"

"I know."

Though serious, there was no resentment in his voice. He didn't turn to face her; however, he didn't try to escape the tight grip she had of his cape, and he too seemed to have more to say.

"I _do_ want to help, okay?" She emphasized her words with a gentle pull on the fabric she had between her fingers.

"You don't have to, Barbara. You wanted to be on your own, and I shouldn't…"

"Hey!" She interrupted him, and her hand left the cape just to quickly get hold of his arm. "Weren't you listening?"

As he glanced from over his shoulder, she had a jocular smile for him:

"I _want_ to help." She gently pressed her fingers around his wrist. "I may have left Gotham, but I would never leave you in a time like this."

He said nothing, and she knew he wouldn't. He hated to discuss the _personal_ things, and, in the end, that's what this was. The silence, however, was all the answer she needed. Loosing the grasp she had of his arm, Barbara slowly drove her wheelchair away from him and closer to the computer keyboard. In the end, there was always a way of showing him how much she cared:

"What can I do for you, Batman?"

* * *

Jason Bard loved Gotham.

The statement was simple enough, but that was just a superficial look at it. In fact, anyone that had time and disposition to look deeper, more carefully, would know that Bard's love for Gotham was a strange, unnatural feeling.

If anything, Gotham City had so many times made Bard's life hard, painful, even sad, that one would wonder why this former police officer, with no relatives, and basically no friends, remained in the so often dangerous, violent city he was born in.

Jason had considered all those things himself, and he had thought long and hard about it. Looking at his life in retrospective, he could point out many moments in which he could have left town, and could have been gone to pursue something far more peaceful and uneventful. Indeed, tragedy wasn't unknown to him, quite the opposite. After all, he was the kid whose father had murdered the mother in a brutal, shocking crime (it didn't have much repercussion back then, since papers were already having too much fun with the Wayne's murderer, and Jason's family was just that kind of ordinary joes that kill each other and don't look good in pictures). Still, Jason grew up turning his resentment only to his father, and not towards the world. In fact, he even chose to be a police officer, finding in the job some sort of redemption, a way of expunging the bad feelings that he still carried since the tough childhood.

Early in his life as cop Jason discovered his true calling. He loved almost everything about being a police officer, but there was this thing he loved the most: investigate. Soon enough Bard recognized himself as a detective before anything, and he boldly followed that road. He was also fortunate to be noticed by Jim Gordon, and that was when things started to, for once, go well in his life. He was promoted, he found a friend in the old Commissioner (kind of the father figure he never had, actually), and, of course, he found Barbara. At that point, Bard would think of himself as a _lucky_ man, believe it or not. He had all: the job, the family, the girl. Nothing could go wrong, right?

Wrong.

Wrong, because that was Gotham. Gotham doesn't let things go well for too long, and it always has a way of turning your life upside down.

Killer Moss was the first "mask" that ruined his life. A shot, a damn shot in Bard's knee, and an entire career in the Force ended. And a life of pain begun – Jason found out the worst way that knee injures _never_ go away. That wasn't all, of course. Soon enough he lost Barbara, and, he wouldn't know the truth for years, thanks to the vilest mask of all. The Joker, in a crazy rampant, attacked Barbara and crippled her. That's when she decided she needed to be alone, and cut Jason out of her life.

Life proceeded as a dark nightmare for Bard. Between the pain and the lost of all the things he cherished, he tried to earn a living as a private detective, and it didn't turn out so bad. After all, if there's one thing you could always count in Gotham was on dark things to be investigated.

In the end, Jason Bard loved Gotham. Yes, it had been the place of his misery in many occasions, but where else in the _world_ a man with Bard's talents could do so well? From crippled police officer to private detective hired by the city's big hero…

Only in Gotham.

And only in Gotham you would have a coffee shop called "The Cat's Corner", it's logo a sexy lady in a ridiculous cat outfit (pointy ears and a tail), the place proudly having a plaque hanged in the entrance that said: "This place was used by the Catwoman as headquarters during the Earthquake, and it sheltered many of the East End homeless citizens during those dark days. Today, thanks to Wayne Enterprises' donations, 'The Cat's Corner' is a successful business, and part of it's profit goes to the 'Earthquake's Orphans Foundation'."

Bard took a deep breath, and entered "The Cat's Corner".

"Can I help you, sir?" He was addressed by a young waitress holding an empty tray, and dressed in a purple uniform that somehow tried to simulate a cat's outfit.

Jason would like nothing else but to tell the girl to get off those stupid clothes, but he simply answered:

"I'm fine, thanks. Just meeting someone." He vaguely looked around the place. "Oh, there they are." He smiled at the waitress. "I'll sit with my friends, but, if you like, we can talk later…"

The girl's face was taken by a sudden flush, and she smirked nervously. "I… I… don't know…"

"Tell you what: I'll just wait outside until your shift is over. This will give you… what, a couple hours to decide if want me to buy you dinner?"

"Actually, my shift has just started…"

"Great. You'll have enough time to make a decision that will not regret." He smiled. "I should seat with my friends, now. They are looking very upset, 'cause I'm already late… They hate to wait." Sighing, he glanced at the table where he should be. "Cops."

"Cops?!? Really?" The girl followed Bard's look.

"Yes, really. It's part of the job…"

Jason walked to the table on a corner, where two people sat and looked at him in obvious dissatisfaction. Marcus Driver and Romy Chandler, detectives of Gotham PD, and, currently, people he should exchange information with – or so said the boss.

"So nice of you to join us, Bard." Driver's sarcastic tone was painfully obvious. "I mean, we wouldn't want to ruin you date with the cat-waitress…"

Jason pulled a chair next to Chandler, knowing that this would infuriate Marcus Driver, and, still, he would have nothing to say. After all, despite the fact that everyone _knew_ Marcus and Romy were dating, the detectives were always trying to be as professional as possibly, and this included never mentioning anything about their relationship while they were working.

"You guys choose the place, if I'm not mistaken." Bard fished a muffin from Romy's plate, despite the outraged "hey!" the female detective let escape. "And, of course, I'm just trying to keep up with the tradition…"

"Tradition?"

"When in the East Side, always keep a Cat-lady by your side."

"Ha-ha." Chandler forced a laugh. "Very funny, Bard. Now, if you could be serious for a moment…"

"I can be serious for you, Romy."

"That would be _Detective_ Chandler, Bard." Driver's remark was dry and had a threatening intonation. "Can we keep a professional level, please?"

Jason smiled, an honest and respectful smile. "Okay, okay… That was uncalled for. Sorry."

"It's fine…" Chandler sighed. "We're kind of on the edge here… Things have been… _tense_, so to speak."

Bard frowned. "What do you mean?"

The detectives exchanged glances for a second, and Romy slightly moved her head, as encouraging Driver.

"Well", Marcus spoke, "we were hoping _you_ could give us some insight, actually."

"About…?"

As Driver looked down, lips pursued, Chandler continued:

"About your boss, Jason." She lowered her tone. "About _Batman_."

He smirked. "Oh, that's rich…! Aren't you the people that are always saying you don't _need_ the guy? Isn't Marcus the one that is always saying Batman attracts more freaks to this town than actually puts them behind bars?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…! Go ahead!" Driver seemed to be prepared for Bard's mockery. "Make fun of me, call me…"

"An ungrateful bastard?"

The detective said nothing, and merely waved his head in disapproval.

"We're loosing focus here." It was Romy, trying to bring the conversation back into topic. "This is not about wounded egos, but about a homicide investigation…"

"Soon to be _double_ homicide…" Marcus bitterly added.

"_Double_ homicide? What do you mean? Did Irena Dubrovna…"

"Not yet", Detective Chandler raised her hand to the pendant on her neck, nervously – and unconsciously - grasping it, "but she had heart failure this morning, according to the officer we have guarding her. Internal bleeding, apparently; doctors are working on her in surgery, but…"

"Oh, no…" Bard sighed.

_"I trust you can handle these few simple tasks…"_

_Batman was standing in Jason Bard's dark living room, conducting a business conversation at three a.m. – it seemed to be one of his most productive hours, and his favorite time for visiting._

_"No problem, Bats…" Jason yawned. "It's taken care of." _

_"Bard", he groaned, "this is a major case, understand? A top priority!"_

_The detective realized his boss was in one of his moods. "Yes, yes, I understand…! I'm taking it seriously, honestly." He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself to look more alert. "I didn't mean any disrespect."_

_Batman silently watched as Jason rubbed off the sleepiness in his eyes, staring the man in a way that Bard couldn't even begin to guess what it was about. "Something wrong?", he risked the question. _

_The only answer he got was Batman taking something from his belt, and tossing it to Jason. Surprised, but still able to react, the man grabbed what was thrown, noticing the object was heavier than he expected for such a small thing. _

_"What's this?", he asked. In his open palm, Bard could see a rectangular device, maybe an inch long, and it had a small button to press. Other than that, it looked like a diminutive box, with Batman's symbol on one side._

_"Long distance communicator." His tone was now back into the emotionless pattern. "It has a satellite signal, __and it can reach virtually anywhere in the globe."_

_"I see." He brought the thing near his eyes, trying to have a better look at it. "I guess you're going on a trip that can lead you virtually anywhere in the globe, hm?"_

_"Something like that." _

_"You want updates? Is that what this thing is for?" _

_"Yes." Batman's voice was now husky, deep. "Specific updates."_

_"That's what I'm here for." He crossed his arms, eyes on the dark shape ahead. "What should I be looking at?"_

_"Irena Dubrovna." _

_"Oh." He __hadn't been able to avoid this brief verbal expression of disappointment. "The lady that was attacked? Really?"_

_"At all times, Bard. You should be aware of everything that happens to her." _

_"Hm… Should I be looking for something in particular?"_

_Batman turned to leave – using the window, as usual. "I just told you what you should be looking for, Bard." Now he sounded impatient. "If anything changes, I want to be informed immediately." _

_"No matter when?"_

_"That's right, Bard. No matter when, no matter what."_

"_'Oh, no'_?" Romy was staring at Jason, seeming very amused. "You actually look pale, Bard… Do you honestly care about Miss Dubrovna?"

"Trust me, I care." He did; he cared for her, and, mostly, he cared enough about himself to avoid guessing what Batman would do if he failed the one simple task it was given to him. _"Brilliant. The one day I'm not there, and this happens…" _He felt nauseated. "Can we go straight to the point, please? You wanted to meet, well, here I am. Anything you need, anything you want from me…?"

Again Marcus and Romy exchanged glances.

"Well…" Driver spoke first, clearly confused and hesitant after Jason's reaction to the news about Irena Dubrovna. "We… we were kind of hoping you… you could, _maybe_, be able to fill some gaps for us…"

The private detective rolled his eyes. "Okay… What do you have?"

Driver opened his mouth, but no sound came.

"What's the matter, Driver?" He stared at the detectives, his eyes going from Marcus to Romy, both avoiding his glance. "What's going on? Why don't you…"

"We were hoping", Chandler abruptly interrupted him, "we were _wondering_, actually, if, maybe, you could make arrangements…"

"Arrangements?"

"Yeah… You know, arrange for us to meet."

"We are meeting right now…! What _the hell_ are you talking about?"

Marcus leaned over the table - almost pouring Bard's coffee - and whispered:

"We need to see _him_."

"See _him_…?" It took a few seconds for Jason to get the meaning of Driver's words. "Oh! Oh, I see! You want to meet with the _Bat_, isn't that right?"

The detectives silently accepted Bard's statement, clearly uncomfortable by the way the private investigator would speak of it.

"No need for all the _noise_, okay?" Romy looked around the old dinner, clearly searching for someone that could be hearing their conversation.

"Relax, guys… This is Gotham. People are used to hear things like that."

Marcus seemed impatient:

"Can you arrange the meeting or not?"

"I'm no match-maker, you know?" Bard smiled.

"You son of a…"

"Easy, Driver!" Jason's tone was a warning, and the smile disappeared to give place to an earnest expression. "I'm not trying to be funny – okay, that's a lie, maybe I am… Anyway, I'm not messing with you, I'm not playing difficult." He sighed. "I would like to help you guys, but I can't."

"Why?!?" Romy's disappointment was clear in his voice and expression.

Reaching for the recent filled cup of coffee ahead of him, Bard drank, placed the cup back on the table, and spoke as he stared the darkness in it. "He's not in town."

Marcus smirked, a sound that matched his nervousness and his disbelief.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm afraid so." Jason raised his eyes to look at the detectives; Chandler's failed expectations, Driver's growing anger. "Sorry."

"Unbelievable…" Marcus waved his head from side to side, a troubled and bitter smile on his lips. "We should have known better, Romy… We can't count on these guys."

"Marcus…"

"Let's go, okay?" He reached for his wallet, taking a few bills and tossing it over the table.

"Hey, camon…"

Driver was already on his feet, anxiously staring at Romy Chandler, who remained on her seat. "Are you coming?"

She looked up to him, but said nothing.

"Romy…" The detective opened his mouth as he was going to say something, but he closed it without a sound. He glanced at Romy for a second, his eyes on hers, and then moved his head side to side. And though he looked furious a few seconds before, he now had replaced all the anger for a deep disappointment, something closer to sadness and regret. He turned to leave: "Do as you want."

"Marcus…"

He didn't look at her as he walked out.

Jason, quietly seating in his chair, and clever enough to realize it was a good moment to say nothing, silently observed the female detective near him. He saw as she sighed, and placed both hands over her own face. She only revealed her face again after a minute or so, when she finally reassumed her casual detective-look. It was the way those guys – Bard knew it better than anyone – had of putting everything behind but their job, the way most cops – or the good ones, anyway – had of making the job more than a job, turning business into _personal_ business.

"_Kind of like the Bat does_", he concluded.

"You're not lying, are you, Bard?"

"I'm not." He looked into her eyes. "I don't know much, Romy, but I know this: he wouldn't leave unless it was important. And, for what I could see, it was."

"Something to do with the sniper case?"

"You bet." Jason considered if, maybe, he was talking too much; but, on the other hand, he couldn't avoid the sympathy he now felt for those cops, those dedicated cops… like he once was. "He's following a really good lead…"

"The wrong one."

"What?" It's was Bard's turn to smirk in disbelief.

"I mean it." Romy had placed a hand over the table, nervously tapping her fingers on it. "Marcus and I bumped into a piece of information that could explain a lot… or everything, maybe."

Jason stared the detective, studying her carefully. Could this be a trap? Could this be a trick? "_No_", he thought to himself, "_no, Chandler is a good cop_." There were just a few things Bard could do well in his life; one was getting into trouble. Another was investigating bizarre murders in Gotham City. The third… well, the third had always been recognizing a good cop. And Jason Bard would bet anything, _anything_ that Romy Chandler and her grumpy boyfriend Marcus Driver were, if nothing else, good cops.

So he did the only thing he could:

"Tell me everything", he said.

* * *

Noises outside the door were getting closer by the second.

And louder.

"Please, my lady! We should leave this place!"

Talia's only reaction was to help herself with more wine.

"He comes, my lady!"

Talia glanced at the door, a steel door reinforced with titanium, sighing as she noticed how all sounds had now faded. Without any enthusiasm, or any signs of worry, she reached a hand to take one of the large strawberries from the bowl full of fruits she had on the table in front of her.

"Ubu", she said, "open the door for our guest, will you?"

"My lady?!?" Ubu was a tall and incredibly built up man, with large arms and the undeniable appearance of a warrior. He had dark skin, and dark eyes that usually carried an attentive look and a threatening expression; however, at that moment, his face showed only paleness and obvious fear.

"I'll not say it again, Ubu." Talia turned a cold glance to her faithful servant. "_Open the door_!"

Ubu reacted the only way he could. Taking a deep breath, he bowed to his master, and went to the door.

It was too late, however. Even before Ubu approached the control panel on the wall to type the code that would open the door, the soft sound of the lock being _un_locked could be heard. Then, the heavy metal door was suddenly wide open, and a dark silhouette could be seen. Ubu wasted no time, and reached for his sword.

"Ubu, no…!" Talia tried to warn her bodyguard, but it was too late; as he drew his sword, a bat-rang immediately hit Ubu's hand, causing the man to drop the weapon. Than, a well executed kick on his stomach, and a punch that ended the fight, sending a knocked out Ubu to the floor.

And Batman now stared at Talia.

"_Bravo_, beloved!" She made no move, except for clapping her hands and smiling with satisfaction. "You actually surprised me with your swift approach!"

Batman glanced around, eyes carefully studying the room they were in: a small place, with nothing much than stone walls and a table – Talia now seating on the only chair in the room, her feet over that table, still smiling, still showing no signs of disturbance.

"Worry not, beloved." Her tone was soft, pleasant. "I have no tricks, no traps."

He didn't move: "I know better than just trust you, Talia."

She rose from her seat, a glass of wine in one hand. "That's harsh, my love."

"I haven't even started."

The answer brought a smile to her lips again, a smile that now could be describe as seductive, even malicious. She walked towards him, moving her body with elegance, every step a careful exhibition of her undeniable beauty, her perfectly shaped body, her dangerous, mysterious eyes.

"Wine?" She offered him the glass in her hands.

He moved with incredible speed, giving Talia no chance to react; his hand reached for hers, his fingers closing around her wrist, the pressure around it forcing Talia to drop the glass, the delicate vessel spattering on the stone floor in multiple shards. Pulling her close, he forced her arm against her back, causing Talia to clench her teeth in obvious pain.

"You come with me, _murderer_!" His voice was husky and seriously threatening.

Despite the pain, Talia managed a crude smile:

"Love is truly blind, isn't it?"

Batman took a pair of handcuffs from his belt, and used it to cuff the woman.

"Whatever you _think_ there is between us, Talia, I assure you: it's not love."

She laughed; her brief and elegant laugh, a sound that was so strange when coming from a person that was about to be arrested.

"You're as insane as your father was." For the first time in many years, Batman saw a disturbing resemblance between Talia and her father, the late and infamous Ra's Al Ghul.

"Perhaps", she had deep brown eyes, undeniably clever, undeniably dangerous. "Still, today he would be very disappointed."

"I never sought his approval." He grabbed her by the arm, and pushed her towards the door. "Or _yours_."

The glance she had for him was resentful and lacked the passion it showed just moments before.

"Who are you lying to, _beloved_?" The venom in her words was obvious. "There's no one here but _us_, and we both know how in the past we shared…"

"Whatever we _may_ have shared…" He interrupted her in a harsh tone. "It was just lies. Nothing more than your tricks to lure me, plans within plans, the mischievous you and your father were always plotting."

"He used to call you _detective_…"

"And I used to call him _enemy_." He forced her to walk a few more steps towards the door. "I guess we were both right."

She smiled: "A good detective wouldn't make presumptions without having evidence to back it up…"

"Talia!" In a sudden burst of anger, a reaction that surprised even Batman himself, he pulled the woman by her arm, turning her around, and bringing her to stay face to face with him. "That's enough! I had enough, enough of your _games_, enough of your _lies_, enough of _you_! I don't want to hear _anything_ _else_ from you, understand?"

This seemed to have an effect on Talia, as her smiled faded completely, and she remained in silence for a few moments, watching Batman's enraged expression. Seeing how the severity in his features persisted, she glanced down, and risked a sentence:

"We have history, Bruce… I…"

"_You_!" His voice was a harsh sound, his teeth clenched. "Now, Talia, now you're nothing to me but a simple murderer…"

"You don't mean that!"

He pushed her a few steps back, now looking less furious, although showing a great deal of despise. "Be quiet."

"Beloved! You are making a mistake…!"

Even as Talia spoke, Batman took from his belt a small syringe; noticing that, the woman nodded his head in shocked disbelief:

"What are you doing?" Her tone betrayed signs of fear.

"A sedative." He grabbed her arm. "It will be easier to carry you…"

"Wait!"

The needle touching her skin, but without injecting the liquid, Batman raised his eyes to look at her. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

He looked at her, the beautiful woman that now seemed to be so disturbed; once upon a time, a long time ago, she had been someone he deeply cared about. She had been an ally, a friend, even a lover. And yes, she was right about one thing: they did have history. From when he first took interest in her, a time when all seemed simpler… A time when Talia was, despite her father's crazy and criminal behavior, a person he could trust. Yes, she loved her father, and many times helped him in his insane plans; still, many times she had helped stop him, one way or the other. Somehow, Batman had always tried to believe she was – even if only deep inside – a good person.

And then… then, she changed.

"Tell me, Talia!" He used the most threatening tone he could, and pressured the needle against her skin: a small drop of blood surfaced. "I don't have time to waste! What do you have to say?"

A flash of anger crossed her eyes, but it was a brief one. She soon assumed a cold expression, and finally spoke:

"What do I have to say, beloved? It's simple enough." She sighed, and turned his look away from Batman. "The truth. I can tell you the truth."


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello__ to you all._

_I'm sorry for how long this took, but I'm having a hard time with the end of this story. I mean, I think I finally got the hang of it, but it took some time. I've always known the end, of course – more or less… Still, I had problems to find the right language since, as you'll see in your reading, I'm introducing new "players" kind of late in the story, and that's always tricky. I think it turned out all right, however, and the result is just bellow._

_This chapter, I would like to say, is very particular. It was supposed to be the last, but, honestly, it would have been huge, so I decided it would be best to have a couple more chapters (this and another one, I hope, or I'll never end this thing!). Therefore, I think it's fair to call this chapter the "beginning of the end", if I want to be really cliché, that is. Anyway, I hope you like it, since it starts to give some answers about the plot, although it sure differs from the rest of the story so far in many ways. To begin with, it's all about the bad guys… _

_I don't want to ruin it, however, so I'll say no more. Oh, well, maybe I'll just say another thing…_

_I would like to give sincere and deep thanks to all my regular readers, and a very special thanks to _**roguecatwoman**, **CMU**, _and _**DarkKnightJRK**. _You guys have been with me all the way, reading and reviewing (not only this story, but other things I wrote too), and this is a great help. Thanks a lot._

_What bring us to my last point: read, review, and, mostly, enjoy! Your constructive opinion is always welcome. _

_See you soon! (I hope)_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

**Gotham City**

**Five Years Ago**

Changing the cell phone from an ear to another, he kept talking:

"I'll explain it again, my friend..." He sounded impatient and annoyed, and yet, seemed to be taking some pleasure of the impertinent tone he was using. "I _don't_ give information for free, Eddie; and I don't exchange it either, since it's highly unlikely you can tell me something I don't already know..."

There was silence for a moment, as he listened to the person that was on the other side of the line. He tapped his fingers over his desk, in a distinct and methodical manner: each finger at time, then thumb, then his index finger twice... and it started again, a ritual he didn't seem quite aware of, and interrupted only when he spoke again, his features suddenly taken by an expression of deep displeasure.

"Because it's my _business_ to know, Edward! You insult me with this kind of suggestion, and I don't take this lightly..." He interrupted himself as he concentrated on listening the voice on the phone, now so loud that he distanced the cell from his ear, holding it a few inches from his face. He sighed and proceeded, his own voice also in a loud tone: "Well, it's a little _late_ for that now, don't you think? Really, do you honestly think there's anything you could do that could make me even _consider_ you as a client... What? What are you...? Quit babbling, Eddie! What the hell do you mean '_she's not dead_'?"

Again he silenced and listened, the person on the other side of the line finally regaining control and speaking in a tolerable tone. He carefully examined his nails as Edward talked, and what he heard didn't seem to disturb him; he turned his attention away from his nails only to smirk, and his face showed only mockery:

"Please, Eddie... Your story sounds like bad fiction, if you ask me. Honestly, I've heard better from the Joker." He leaned to comfortably adjust on his chair, and placed his feet over the desk, his arms crossed behind his head. "We all know she's good, but she's just not _that_ good... _was_, I mean..." He couldn't refrain from briefly laughing. "Hm... Sorry. Anyway, Cobblepot paid a small fortune for the whole deal, and I'm pretty sure he would be on my back at this exact moment if things hadn't gone as planned..."

He was still smiling when the voice on the phone talked again, but the smile melted in the seconds that followed. Suddenly removing his feet from the desk, he sat straight on his chair, now looking both furious and alarmed; he was pale, and small drops of sweat started to show on his forehead. However, this lasted only a few moments, since his features were gradually gaining color, the reddish color of anger, and he now yelled on the phone:

"In _jail_?!? How could he be in jail?!? Who...? Batman? _The _Batman? What the hell was he doing there...?" He took a deep breath, apparently trying to regain control. "Yes, _I know_ he stops crimes, you moron...! The point is, there was no crime! It was a _set up_! Cobblepot just wanned to get her..." He rubbed his face with a hand, obviously nervous. "Never mind, Eddie; this is not your concern." His tone was now steady again, and, while holding the phone close to his ear by supporting it on his shoulder, he placed both hands over his desk, both symmetrically distant from the table's borders. "And it's not _my_ concern either, since I only make the arrangements; Batman wasn't a variable in the equation, other wise, the price would have been _much_ higher. I did my part, and if you're speaking for Cobblepot's interests..."

The next sentence spoke by Edward had an effect on him, as he raised an eyebrow.

"_My _interests? What do you mean?" He frowned. "I can handle myself, thank you for your _concern_, Edward..." The statement had a dry sarcasm in it. "I don't think a man in prison can do much against... a woman?!? You're not making any sense; you just told me Batman had locked everyone...!"

The next sentence came in a cold, emotionless tone:

"Of course he didn't." A grim smile on his lips, he closed his eyes and used both index fingers to massage his temples. "Why would he? She's just the greatest bugler in Gotham... I'm sure this is reason enough to let her go, it's not like she's a _criminal_, right? No... no, I'm not being funny..."

Despite the fact he had his eyes closed, and that, being her as silent as she was, he didn't hear any sounds, he was still able to feel her presence - she emanated danger and rage, an aura of pure threat, and was one of those people that didn't need to be seen to actually be noticed - if she intended to, of course. "Hold on, Edward."

He tried to turn his chair to face her, but it was too late. He saw nothing but the back of her hand, a violent slap that was noisy and painful, and even pushed his chair a few inches back. He dropped the phone, but she caught it before it fell on the floor. Then, she raised the cell to her own ear, and, with a cruel and satisfied smile on her lips, lifted her right boot to press it against the chest of the man that stared at her through thick glasses, just as she spoke in a casual tone:

"I'm here, Eddie." Her left hand was free, but not for long; even as she talked on the phone, she moved her wrist in a gracious and fast gesture, and long metal claws came out of her gloves. She used this hand to grab the man in front of her by the tie he wore. "Yes, your work was impeccable... And I appreciated how you did this extra phone call last much more then the expected." She listened for a few seconds, and then she laughed briefly - a musical, pleasant laugh, one that would make most people stop what they were doing just to take a look at the woman that produced such a sound. _Most_ people, but certainly not the man that sat on that chair, a heavy leather boot holding him into place, clawed fingers scratching the skin of his chin.

"I'll tell him, Ed... No, don't worry... I'll remember it. Yeah, yeah, definitely; I placed it where you wanted, twenty five grand in each bag. Have fun." The conversation over, she didn't bother turning the phone off; tossing it on the floor, she smashed it to pieces. There was no smile on her lips, not anymore, and all she had was a cold look in her emerald green eyes. "Now, back to business...", she hissed.

"Before anything", he said abruptly, "I just would like to point that I'm a professional, merely working for the better offer..."

A violent pull on his tie quieted him down.

"Shut up, you coward!" She spoke through clenched teeth, and, placing her right foot back on the floor, she leaned to approach her face to his. "I won't fall for your excuses, Noah! You're a rat, double-crossing, minor villain, playing with your technological toys! You'rea _loser_, nothing but that!"

His expression froze, and all color left his face for the second time this day; his glance, however, showed the hate that so often comes to those that feel humiliated.

"I'm _not_ a loser! I'm _not_ a 'minor villain'! I'm the _Calculator_! And I'm certainly better than you, you insignificant whore, betrayer, hero _lover_...!"

A slap cut his sentence before he had the chance to finish it - a mean, painful slap, that caused blood to drip from his mouth and nose. He lost his words, and also his glasses, as they fell with a cracking sound on the floor; still, he could hear her tone, and, taken from the cold fury in her voice, Noah realized he had pushed her buttons.

"_First_", he saw what seemed to be a gloved index finger just a few inches from his face, "I don't appreciate name calling; I've been called names too many times in my life to care much, but I hate - I absolutely _hate_! - when someone associates me to a so called 'hero'... and we all know who you're talking about! Let's make this very clear: I _don't_ work for Batman, I _don't_ work with the Batman; if anything, he's my _enemy._ The guy is in my way as much as he is in yours." She pushed him, forcing his body against the back of the chair. "Got it?"

He did nothing but flinch at the sight of her hand so near his face again, now two fingers stretched.

"_Second_", she proceeded, "It's really _hypocrite_ of you to come with this talking of 'honor among thieves' thing, calling me _betrayer_ when _you_ just tried to justify yourself with the professionalism excuse. Isn't all about the best offer, Noah?"

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, an expression that denounced how disturbed he felt for falling in contradiction.

"Tell me you're not taking it to a _personal_ level, Calculator..." She smiled with sadistic pleasure as he remained in silence, doing nothing but watch her in obvious and passionate anger. "It's just business, after all; I made an offer to your friend Edward Riddler he just couldn't resist, so he played the game of 'where in the world is the Calculator'. Quite fun, if you ask me."

"Liar", he whispered. "Edward would never give you a straight answer, no matter the money you offered him."

"Who said anything about money?" Her smile widened.

He observed her in silence for a few seconds, an evaluative expression that seemed so odd when combined with his sore, bloody face. Wrinkles on his forehead, a thoughtful look, he spoke with distrust:

"It doesn't matter. The Riddler is incapable of providing a clear, straight answer. He couldn't even if he wanted to." An unexpected smile twisted his lips. "And you would never be able to come up with an answer to Edward's charades in just a few hours..."

"Don't underestimate me, Noah."

"Like I said before, you're good, but just not _that_ good."

She sighed: "Hm... Okay, okay... I confess... I had some help."

He smiled in triumph. "I knew it."

"Oh, yes, Noah... You're _that_ good, I suppose." She raised her hand to place it around his neck, her metal claws touching bare skin and causing the Calculator to shiver; still, he managed to speak:

"_He_ helped you, didn't he?" His words came immersed in despise. "The Bat, right? He helped you, that hypocrite bastard..."

"Now, now, Noah... You better watch your language... The word 'hypocrite' has been mentioned too many times in this conversationto be taken seriously. I prefer _contradictory_; it sounds so much better..."

But the Calculator stared at her in profound curiosity; his eyes darted at her, wrinkles of deep thought between his browns, and he asked in a low, hollow tone, almost a whisper:

"What's his price?" There was a sinister light in his eyes.

"His _price_?" She smiled, although this smile in particular didn't have the usual lightness and satisfaction of her smiles. "See, I never said he actually..."

"Oh, don't try to fool me! It's _painfully_ obvious!" Feeling the metal claws tightening around his neck, he gasped and froze; then, he spoke again, now tensely watching the movements of her hands. "We can work this out, Catwoman! I was never one to endorse violence, but..."

"Really? I thought differently when a dozen guns were shooting at me, courtesy of thefake job _you_ gave me!"

"I made a mistake, I see it now!" His tone carried self-commiseration, as well as a dose of guilt. "You were the better man - so to speak -, you've proved it now. Seeing what you're capable of - outsmarting me! -, I know we can find a lucrative way out of this..."

She raised an eyebrow. "I do like lucrative deals..."

"Don't we all?" He smiled broadly, his perfectly aligned teeth glowing under the pale light of the computer screens that occupied the room. "We can find a middle ground, I'm sure."

"I'm sure we _could_, Noah..."

Something in the sound of the last sentence caused the Calculator to shiver, and it had nothing to do with the sharp claws around the soft skin of his neck.

"You see", she proceeded, "I'm not one to hold grudges or attach to the past, but I highly value my _dignity_... Oh, never mind, you wouldn't understand, would you?"

"No, no, I do, and I wouldn't dare put a price on it, but maybe there's a figure that could..."

_"And_", she hastily interrupted him, "I must be honest."

He said nothing, concentrated on the roguish, teasingly way she now stared at him. Nothing good was about to come, he sensed, and he finally regretted the fact he didn't have a gun at hand - or someone _with _a gun that knew how to use it appropriately. Ignoring all that, the woman in front of him seemed to assume a more relaxed position; she step back, placing both hands on her waist, standing to be seen in her whole figure. Dressed in her Catwoman outfit, the whip pending from her belt, leather boots that added a few inches to her tall, beautifully built body, she finally appeared to Noah's eyes as this:

Dangerous. Too dangerous in many ways to be underestimated or dismissed as _just _a simple thief.

"You're right, Noah... I _did _have help. _His _help. 'You scratch my back, I scratch yours', all that nonsense. And, after all, I can't fail in _my_ part of the deal... It's an honor thing." She pushed his chair with her left foot, turning it around. "And you realize what I promised him, don't you? _Who _I promised..."

The Calculator had lost his glasses, but he didn't need to see to be sure about it. The dark, tall shadow, the indistinct figure that stood in a corner of the room, so silent and still that it would be impossible to know for how long he had been there. Maybe he got there even as she did; impossible to tell. Fact was, none of the security systems had been able to detect them, not a single alarm or camera; had it been his job, her job, or their work together, things were making perfect sense in Noah's mind, and it painted a picture he was anything but glad to see.

"I always keep _my _word, Calculator." She whispered near his ear.

He clenched his teeth in anger, feeling for her a very unique sort of hate, the kind a person can experiment only in very special occasions: deep, revengeful, violent.

"I won't forget this", he simply stated.

"I hope not! Otherwise, it wouldn't be as fun."

"Catwoman", he murmured, "I know you, Catwoman, and, sooner or later, I'll finish what I started..."

A strong grip or dark, heavy hands, pulled him violently out of his chair.

* * *

**Gotham**** City**

**Now**

I get at the address half an hour before scheduled, and, no surprise, he's already there.

"Bard", he calls, that cold voice coming from the darkest corner of the living room. Geez, he always has to come from the dark, talking from somewhere behind you...! It's creepy, yeah, even creepier because is no better when you actually face him - to face him... that's definitely the worst.

"Hey, boss", I say. Reached for my pack of cigarettes, lost in my coat's left pocket, just another way of avoiding his eyes. Blank, vitreous eyes, part of his mask, no doubt - still, it's spooky as hell, and, although I understand he must conceal as much as he can of the man under the mask, well, I avoid that blank glance as much as I can. It's disturbing, always so disturbing how he seems to be able to look into your mind.

"How are the arrangements going?" He's direct and to the point; yeah, I don't think he's much of a small talk kind of guy. Can't avoid wondering if he's like that all the time, or just when he's around people like me - common folks, nothing like the _masks_. I have this idea, this picture in my mind, of heroes in uniforms seating around the table in their leagues and societies and telling silly jokes. You know, just talking about daily things, like how the Knights are playing badly, or how hot is that chick they saved... oh, well, I sure can't see the Bat doing that.

"All going smoothly, boss... Gordon is on it, and Driver is on his way here right now. With backup, mind you; lots of backup..."

"We don't have much time", he says, interrupting me whenever pleases him. "He'll soon figure the police frequency he's monitoring is a fake."

"It will be too late for him, boss." I finally put a cigarette between my lips, and now struggle to find the darned lighter. "Police will have the whole place surrounded in less than an hour."

He doesn't seem convinced by my statement, but he says nothing in response; keeps quiet, doesn't move a muscle, and I know he's pondering how long is just _too_ long. Yes, deep inside, I know we don't have time. I know that, with this kind of guy, a minute is an amount of time we don't have the luxury of wasting. Less of all, an entire hour.

"Well, we're here now, aren't we?" I walk a couple steps and reach the window: we're just across the street from him. Yeah, it's hard to believe... the damned bastard is fifty feet away, in an uneventful, kind of innocent-looking suburbia house. Perfect hide out, someone would say. Guy lives there, under all of our noses, pretending to be a common citizen. Son of a bitch, I can't avoid admiring his cleverness... his story was flawless, not a single person in the neighborhood had reason to doubt him: he had just moved from Blüdhaven, where he allegedly lost his wife and kid during Chemo's attack, almost two years ago. He pretended to be a writer, and that explained why he worked at home and was so reclusive at times. He had the sympathy of everyone, for he was a grieving husband that, because of his work, knew a lot about the ugly side of things... The bastard, believe it or not, would tell the kids stories about the masks, and reveal small dirty secrets to the adults: who dated who in the superhero scene, what heroes were once villains, and discuss theories about how many different Flashes and Green Lanterns we already had...

"You know we can't do it ourselves." His voice carries an unobtrusive sign of distress.

"Yeah, yeah... I know."

I sigh, knowing he's right, after all - he always seems to be, anyway. We know the guy in that house across the street is the lowest scum, but, on the other hand, he is truly smart and resourceful scum. There's no use in just breaking in that house and breaking his nose... he would be out of jail in less then twenty four hours. Oh, yes, that's how life is, sometimes.

So, to make it happen, the boss had a plan.

Thing was, in the almost six weeks we had been investigating the Collins/Dubrovna case, he - the boss, or Batman, as most knew him - had been in his worst humor and in his best shape. We covered the entire city, and that, of course, led us to the man that shot both women... just to find him dead, and in pieces, and unable to pay for what he did (not that, considering his end, he didn't have what he deserved and then a little more). Not to mention, it was crystal clear to me - and to the Bat - that the fool had been acting by someone's order; who, and why, turned out to be the boss' obsession.

Don't ask why; I never did. The important thing is: to follow obscure leads, Batman left town and went only the Lord knows where. It was probably far, since it took him a whole week to be back. It had been a productive week, however: apparently, somewhere overseas he had discovered the man responsible for the attacks.

What bring us to where we are now, in our own suburbia house, just across the street from the criminal mastermind. Conveniently enough, the family that lived here for twenty years had a sudden change of heart, and sold the place abruptly - one of the parents received an irrecusably job offer in Star City, courtesy of Queen Industries. House was sold on the speed of light; according to my research, money came from somewhere abroad, which was weird enough - but it didn't bother our usually neurotically cautious and observing suspect. To my surprise, we had been able to set our own surveillance scheme in the so far empty house, and he didn't suspect a bit.

And now, the boss had a plan. Good one, sure, but as I thought about it, I couldn't avoid thinking about all the ways it could go wrong:

"Think he's really coming?"

"I _know_ he's coming."

This relieved part of the heavy weight in my heart. "Nice", I say as smoke comes out of my mouth. "One of your guys is following him...?"

"No."

"Then how...?"

He turned his inexpressive glance in my direction, and I knew I should shut up.

Minutes dragged slowly, and silence grew in the empty living room. The Bat did nothing but attentively watch the monitor that showed images of the house across the street, images from the hidden cameras he had placed outside. It was weird, I thought, since we had a great view of the place from the windows of the house we _were_, but, well, it was the Bat; he was always saying we couldn't be too careful, and that we shouldn't underestimate our enemies. Couldn't risk being seen, he would always say.

And I could do nothing but agree.

My cell suddenly beeps, and I know it's the sign.

"Cops are here", I say, and not trying to hide that I'm not pleased about it. Truth was, I still had hopes that they would be late, and we would have to act on our own - lay a few punches on the bastard hidden in that house, that would be fun.

The boss didn't take his eyes from the monitor, however:

"Just in time", he says.

I looked over his shoulder, keeping myself from running to the window to have a closer look. Yeah, there it was: a black Rolls Royce, shiny and well cared, parking in front of the infamous house. "Oh, that's subtle", I comment before even thinking how inappropriate it was.

"Quiet, Bard." He looks over his shoulder to face me. "Call Driver, and tell him _exactly_ what we agreed."

"Hay, hay, sir." I reach for my cell, dialing without even looking at it. I'm too interested, after all, in the black sedan and, most of all, in the person that is coming out of it. "Driver?", I ask the second he answers the phone, not giving him time to speak. "You better move, man..."

I can't avoid a smile. "Yeah... _Luthor_ is here."

* * *

The screen showed: 

**Upload: 92 per cent complete **

"_Damn slow computer!_" He closed the laptop and, with a long and deep breath, rose from his chair. His glasses slipped down his nose, sweat making his skin grease - he hated, oh, he _hated_ that! Took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his face; then, taking off the glasses, he carefully cleaned its lenses.

He heard someone knocking - _again_!

"Great...", he spoke in the solitude of his command center, a gloom irony in his tone. "This is just great!"

Taking a moment to look at the wall behind him - twenty four screens of high resolution, showing images that would change every six seconds, images from cameras placed in so many different places... Gotham, Metropolis, New York, Atlanta, London, Paris, Kahndaq, and so many other cities... Cameras that showed streets, homes, the inside of an office building, garages, banks, dark alleys, even an elementary school. People. So many people, both ordinary and... _less_ ordinary, so to speak: masked people, so many of them; heroes and villains, and even those that were somewhere between.

He focused on one screen in particular, however; the one that showed him his front door.

"Not this now...!"

Lex Luthor was standing there, dressed in a dark suit, an expression that was anything but encouraging. He was knocking on the door again, and yelling:

"I know you're here!" Lex stopped for a second, and glanced around: left, right, up, down. It took him no more than that: he was now directly looking at the camera, the diminutive, almost imperceptible device hidden among the plants in a vase that was by the door.

Luthor smiled: "Ah, there you are... Open the door, Noah, or I'll have to break in... You don't want that much noise, do you? It could bother your neighbors..."

Noah bit his lower lip, but, seating back on his chair, he typed a numeric code on one of the many keyboards around him. A low, muffled 'click' was heard, and then the front door swung open.

"About time", was the dry, cynical comment of the unwanted visitor.

Pressing another key on the keyboard, he spoke:

"Hello, Lex." His voice echoed in the house, carrying the distinguished and characteristic noise patterns produced when one speaks too close to a microphone.

Noah watched in his screen as Luthor walked in, passing the entrance hall and reaching the living room; hands behind his back, a bored and emotionless look in his features, he merely glanced around.

"Oh, Noah... you really have no idea of how to enjoy life, do you?" Now his expression translated disdain, even some degree of disgust. "This has to be one of the tackiest choices of furniture I've ever seen..."

"Never realized you were a specialist in _interior design_, Luthor." The voice coming from hidden speakers sounded fairly less aggravated then its owner actually felt. "You came all the way from Metropolis just to check my lack of taste on choosing furniture?"

"In different circumstances, I might."

Noah didn't miss the subtle threat in Luthor's tone; noticing how his own heartbeat gradually accelerated, he turned his attention to the many keyboards placed around his chair, and did his best to ignore the growing anxiety while working as fast as he could.

The screens suddenly changed: all images now showed Lex Luthor and the house, from all the angles possible. They followed the man as he confidently walked through the living room and reached the library, where he approached one of the perfectly organized bookshelves.

"Impressive... We've always shared _this_ at least, Noah: an irreprehensible taste for classic literature." He examined the shelves for a moment, then removing a copy of Maquiavel's _The Prince_ from its place, and examining it in his hands with a smile touching his lips. "One of my favorites too, of course."

"Of course." Noah clenched his teeth and typed frenetically, a long list of commands simultaneously appearing on the many monitors around, except for one: the screen of the laptop with the upload message, now 96 per cent complete.

"Tell me, Noah..." Luthor walked around the room, carefully examining the shelves. "Is it possible that, by moving these books in a very particular manner, one of these bookcases reveals a passage to the room you are now?"

Noah abruptly stopped typing, holding his breath as he turned his chair to face the screens on the wall behind him, screens that showed Lex Luthor and his malicious smile in a disturbing variety of angles.

"I wonder", Lex proceeded, "what's the combination that leads to your secret and precious hideout... Maybe something complex, like a combination involving quantum concepts and a numeric code related to author's names?"

Watching the screen in tense anticipation, Noah felt his heart skip a beat. Luthor, however, smirked and waved his head from side to side:

"Noah, Noah, Noah... And you call yourself the _Calculator_?" He frowned, as he seemed to vaguely glance around. "You think a bizarre combination and a primary security system could be enough? You really _are_ naive..."

"Shut up, Luthor!" Noah now finally felt anger and rage flowing through him, deeply insulted and offended. "You always acted like you were better than the rest of us, pretentiously speaking as some sort of _leader_ for the so called 'villains'... Villains! Mediocre beings that served as nothing more then sparing bags for the Justice League, that's all! Well, Luthor, I'm not a disposable minion, and I'm not working for you or any other crazy lunatic that thinks the whole point of existence is proving that a moron dressed in blue tights and in a red cape can be defeated by _you_!"

Lex accepted those words in silence, patiently waiting for the Calculator to finally end his infuriated speech. When silence came, he merely placed his hands behind his back and, in a perfectly steady tone, spoke:

"I suppose you're right, Noah... about a thing or two." He walked around the room again, his eyes on the floor and a smile on his lips. "Still, I really think you owe me a little more _respect_, don't you?" He stopped near the bookcase from where he had taken the book, and, supporting one of his elbows on a shelf, he used his other hand to take from an internal pocket of his jacket a small data disc. "After all, you _have_ been using my Luthor Corp's satellites to store your data, haven't you? In a very sneaky, clandestine way, mind you."

Noah took a deep breath, his expression, in a rare moment that no one witnessed, showing resignation.

"You know what's funny, Noah? What is incredibly ironic?" Luthor kept talking, now holding the data disc in one hand, and pointing with his index finger to no place in particular. "Is the fact that I wouldn't care about your naughty behavior if I had discovered it in different circumstances. Really. I would probably still think of you as an idiot, but I would like it; I wouldn't even _interfere_, Noah."

The Calculator didn't turn his attention from the screens, but he stretched an arm to reach one of the keyboards, and typed another numeric code.

"Seriously. I wouldn't." Lex glanced at the disc he held. "You have precious information, Noah, that's for sure. You do have a lot on many, _many people_, and information, as you very well know, is today's most precious currency."

"Another thing we agree on, Luthor... The value of information."

"Indeed!" He emphasized his words by nodding his head in agreement. "And information, Noah, is what we have _in common_."

Lex now held the disc ahead, exhibiting it as a trophy. "For instance: who would have guessed that the so called _Calculator_, the man that claims that every thing and every one has a price, the man that insists we should be, above all, professionals, the one that says that it should never be personal, but _business_...!" He raised an eyebrow and his smile - that could have been described, so far, as judicious, even prudent - turned into an open, undeniably _mean_ smile. "Who would have guessed that the Calculator, so professional, would use a hired-gun to deal with his boring and overweighed ex-girlfriend, a petty revenge solely based in an old resentment..."

Luthor's words were followed by nothing but silence; and Lex, apparently amused by Noah's lack of reaction, proceed his speech in a calm, contemptuous tone:

"If only you had come to me... this could have worked in so many wonderful ways!" He took a moment to soundly sigh. "But, no, not you. Right, Noah? You just couldn't admit your system had flaws, could you? Let me guess..." In a theatrical gesture, Luthor raised a hand to his own face, pretending to scratch his meticulously shaved chin. "An upload to the satellite every twelve hours? No, no, twelve is too much for you... maybe every eight hours, then... and all the data was completely erased from your computers, right?"

A muscle in Noah's jaw twitched, and that finally awake him: he had been staring blankly at the screen, watching while Luthor mocked his plans in his own house. He shook his head from side to side, and left the chair he was sat on; his eyes immediately focused on the laptop: **UPLOAD COMPLETE**, was the message he read with relief. _"At last!"_, he celebrated in silence. Then, pressing the microphone button once again, he addressed his guest:

"I had to play safe, right, Luthor? You can hardly blame me for that..."

The smile left Lex's features.

"I can, actually, and I mostly certainly _will_, Noah... You risked my security, not to mention, _stole_ from me."

"Stole? That's a harsh word."

"Not as harsh as what is about to come, Noah." Again he placed both hands behind his back, assuming a stern expression. "Now, will you open the entrance or do I have to open it myself? I take no pleasure in humiliating you, Noah, but if you insist..."

A muffled, yet sharp sound came from somewhere above Luthor - he frowned, suddenly looking both intrigued and irritated, and raised his glance just in time to see a diminutive slit from where an almost imperceptible gas smoothly glided. He immediately covered his mouth and nose with a hand, then fetching a handkerchief from his jacket's pocket to breath into, but the coughing begun just a few seconds later; in fact, he had to struggle his way out of that room, since his legs lost strength in a scary speed. However, as Luthor reached the living room, another obvious gas exit could be seen on a high corner.

"I'm sorry, Lex..." The Calculator used the microphone to deliver what he considered an appropriate farewell to a man like Lex Luthor. "I must confess: I'm enjoying this very much; maybe _too_ much, considering I'm not a professional murderer. Still, you, like rare other people, is worth an exception. Have fun in hell, you megalomaniac prick."

Taking the laptop with him, and nothing else, Noah hit the "Enter" key of one of his keyboards for the last time.


	6. Chapter 6

_And that's a wrap!_

_Finally! Almost an entire year later, but the end has come at last… I tried to clarify all the loose ends in this chapter, except for a thing or two – sequel anyone? So, the chapter turned out to be HUGE, but I figured this is best than cutting it in two, adding yet another chapter. _

_The Calculator, Lex Luthor, Talia, Marcus Driver, Jason Bard, Selina Kyle… they and others have moments in here – it's me trying to give readers a glimpse of how "the end" turns out to be with these characters. In the end, I guess Batman is one of the characters that are less contemplated, although, of course, he has his moments. Happy ending, you ask? Well, it depends on the point of view… :)_

_All and all, I hope you have fun with this end, and that it pleases you readers. Most of all, I thank you for being here with me during all this journey, I appreciate your patience, and I'm grateful to you guys that leave reviews or send me messages, often with kind words that help my writing get better. Big, big thanks._

_Thank you so much for being here, and enjoy the end of this "Emotionally Involved". _

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

**Gotham City**

**Two Years Ago**

She looked the picture again, promising herself it would be the last time.

They looked happy… both so happy. She knew she was, because the memories of that day, although it had happened so many years ago, were fresh in her mind. It had been a wonderful day, hadn't it? He went to her house, and then they had taken the bus; he was so cheerful, so excited, so romantic… their first stop had been at the Robinson Park, where they sat on a bench and watched the sun goes down. Later, they crossed the street to dine in a small - but nice – Italian restaurant; they sat in a table outside, and while waiting for their order a young photographer offered to take their picture – for a dollar, she remembered perfectly, just like she remembered the young photographer had grey eyes, and just like she remembered how Noah smiled when she said that "it would be nice to have something to remember a special night like this one…"

Pressing the picture on her chest, her fingers convulsively grasping the old photograph, she took a deep breath and stepped forward. Enough of memories, enough of fears, enough of thinking about him… _Never again_.

It was the step beyond the balustrade of the roof, and she felt the nothingness under her foot. Nothing, nothing but the empty space, and the hard sidewalk twelve floors bellow. _Goodbye_, she silently said, to no one in particular. And then she dived, to the end of all things.

She woke up feeling something hard and cold against her back. _Am I dead?_ But there was no pain, no fear, no light, nothing different from the regular, dull world she was used to. Up above, the place her eyes were staring at, the night sky remained the same: stars, full moon, not a single cloud. Beautiful, beautiful night.

"Lady", she heard someone calling. A feminine voice, subtle and low, strange, unnatural. "Lady, are you alright?"

In her clasped hands, the picture remained.

"Yes… I… I think I'm fine…" She straightened herself and sat, glancing around and easily recognizing her surroundings. No, it wasn't heaven, and she was almost a hundred per cent sure it wasn't hell either – although it was the closest thing to it. She was in an alley, the alley between the building she jumped from and the Wal-Mart. And not dead. Next to her, kneeled on the dirty floor she had been lying on, there was a woman – or at least seemed like a woman, although she wasn't sure. She had a cowl, after all, and big goggles; dressed all in black, in a dark place like that, it was hard to see her clearly. It looked like a woman, though, and sounded like one.

Besides, she had heard about that person, especially since she had moved to the East End: Catwoman, that's how people called her.

"Are you hurt? Feel any pain, or numbness, or problems to see…?"

"I'm alright!" She was, indeed, perfectly okay. Not a single scratch, not even a concussion or a minor internal wound. Facts that only caused her to feel like crying. "Thanks to you, right?"

Catwoman stood up, and answered the question with considerable caution. "Hm… yes…?"

The woman just nodded her head from side to side, a gesture that translated hopeless and undeniable desolation. "Why…?"

"Why?" Now standing, Catwoman was more visible under the moonlight, silver light reflecting on the glass of her goggles and revealing more of her physical features. The pale illumination showed she took the question with surprise, but that lasted only for an instant; soon a confident, playful smile highlighted the exposed portion of her appealing face. "Why not?"

"I jumped!"

"I know!"

She had nothing else to say; discuss with the Catwoman wouldn't take her anywhere – the place she thought to be visiting more frequently these days. Therefore, she just tossed the picture aside and used her hands to cover her tearful face. "Just... just leave me alone, okay?"

There was the almost imperceptible sound of Catwoman's boots lightly stepping on the floor, but she didn't go far:

"I can't", she said, now perhaps five feet from the woman. "I can't leave you like that... you... you'll do it again!"

The woman lowered her hands, revealing her misty eyes. "So what? This is not of your damn business! It's my choice!"

"Easy, lady! I'm just trying to help! I don't usually go around saving potential suicides, but I couldn't just watch you hit the cement and die, could I? I mean, who would just stand and do nothing...?"

"Everybody but you, apparently...!" She brushed the back of her hands over her wet face.

"Hey", Catwoman said, staring at the woman's left hand, "you're married!"

A sad, bitter smile was her only response to the statement.

"Is it him?" Now the vigilante's tone was grave, and she glanced down at the woman in eager anticipation for an answer.

"What...?" She looked confused for a moment, but, as she understood the meaning of Catwoman's words, she nodded her head from side to side in intense denial. "Oh, no, no! No, it's not his fault, poor Oliver! No, he doesn't even dream about this..."

"More like a nightmare, don't you think?"

The woman lowered her glance to stare at her own clasped hands, both resting on her lap. "Yes... poor Oliver... I... I don't want to leave him like that, all of the suddenly, but..."

Catwoman looked both incredulous and outraged:

"Are you serious? You were about to _kill_ yourself! Do you have kids?" And just as the woman nodded her head again, now consenting, cold anger flashed in Catwoman's eyes. "What's wrong with you, lady? Don't you know what something like that can do to a child?"

"I thought about that!" She protested just as she stood up. "But I honestly think they will be better without me..."

"Did you ever _ask_ them?"

The woman didn't answer; she merely walked a few steps, and retrieved the photograph she had tossed away herself.

"If you are depressed, _sick_, then you should seek help. There are people, _places_ you can go..."

"No, there aren't." And as Catwoman looked both intrigued and offended, the woman proceeded. "I'm not just depressed... I'm..." She hesitated, and looked down at the picture in her hands.

"Please, go on." The vigilante's tone now made her insistent words sound like a soft request.

All the woman did in response was stretching her arm and show Catwoman the picture.

"It's you", she said, showing no special interest. "And who's that? Your husba...?"

Her words were cut abruptly, and her eyes widened in obvious shock. "The Calculator", she observed, and her tone translated anger and dismay.

"Yes. Noah. _Not_ my husband... but the man I helped keep behind bars." The woman pressed her lips in expectancy. "The neighbor's kid... he was working for Oswald Cobblepot in the Iceberg, but he's always talking... he was always saying how he had met all kinds of famous people in the club, including criminals; and then, a week ago, during his mother's birthday party, he told everyone he had met 'The Calculator'...!" Again she covered her face with her hands, sobbing intensely. "And then... then... three days ago... he... he..."

"... was killed." Catwoman's features were solemn and grave.

"Yes." She lowered her hands, revealing a distraught, deeply troubled expression, tears running down her face. "They beat him to death, and his tongue had been cut off!"

"I see." Catwoman placed a clawed finger over her chin, and thought for a second. "Maybe I can help."

"How?"

"I'll find out what the kid said, and to _who_ he said... shouldn't take long, Cobblepot's guys are a bunch of little girls. Then, shut the right lips - don't worry, I won't kill anyone, that's not what I do. Meanwhile, I'm afraid you'll have to convince your husband to move out of your apartment... I'll find another place in the East End for you guys, so it won't be too much trouble... besides, it's easier for me to keep an eye on you if you remain here..."

Although tears still fell from her eyes, the woman now allowed herself a smile, a smile that gradually widened, as she watched Catwoman in marveled disbelief. "Thank you", she muttered.

"No problem." Catwoman smiled. "It's what I do. Well, at least recently..." In a playful gesture, she blinked an eye; then, stretched her hand in offer of a handshake. "I'm the Catwoman, first and only; and you are...?"

She returned the friendly gesture.

"Beatrice Collins. But you can call me Bea."

* * *

**Gotham City**

**Now**

His eyes were heavy and itchy, his head was light, thoughts floating freely and incongruously, his tongue swollen and rough, and he felt his throat dry and sandy. There were discernible things, though; movements and sounds, light, shapes that slowly began to make sense... The thing on his face, for example, that was the first: a mask, a plastic mask, and its rubber strap that kept it tight and pressed against his face, covering his mouth and nose. Then, then he realized there were lights. Many bright lights above him, and he was looking directly at it, white and yellow brightness that was too close and shiny, and he laid down helpless under them.

He tried to move his head, but his neck hurt and he growled under the mask. Damn thing, uncomfortable and irritating... Raising his hand to remove it, he was surprised to notice he actually... couldn't. _What?_, he asked himself, maybe in thought, maybe out loud, he wasn't sure. Again he tried to move his hand, and again he couldn't; something, _something_ around his wrist, something cold and hard, something that kept him from moving not only one arm, but, now he realized, _both_ arms. In fact, an unpleasant knowledge was finally reaching him, an obnoxious reality: he was trapped.

"Oh", he heard a masculine voice manifesting somewhere close. Seconds later, and after quick and plain sounds that he understood as steps, an indistinct shape suddenly took claim of his view - the same individual he heard before. "How do you feel, Mr. Luthor?"

A man, definitely a man: he could see the outline of messy short hair and a well-defined, sharp chin. Something, probably a dark colored tie, hanged from the man's neck, its tip almost touching Luthor's forehead - still, the man seemed to wear some sort of heavy vest, and held what looked like a gas mask in his right hand.

"For a moment there, we thought we had lost you, Mr. Luthor. Quite a scare you gave us, you know?"

His tone, if anything, was jocular. However, a mask over his own face, and tied on what now seemed to be some kind of bed, Lex Luthor didn't have much to add or even how to respond to that man.

"But don't worry", the man proceeded, "you'll be fine, now. Well, at least your _health_ will be fine; no permanent damage, it seems..."

As the man spoke, Lex gradually felt memories and images coming back to him. Yes, he had been in danger; yes, he did remember something like that... he was in Noah's house, and then... then...

"The poisonous gas was dreadful", the man said, almost like he was able to read Luthor's thoughts. "It works fast, and, quite frankly, you would be dead in a matter of minutes..."

His eyes getting used to the lights, Lex could now finally have a better look of his surroundings: small and uncomfortable, with medical equipment and machines all around him. _An ambulance_, he reasoned. _I'm in an ambulance_. Of course. He had been poisoned, _Noah_ had done it...

"It was a good thing that my boss took you out of that house so fast; you see, the Calculator had a contingency plan that would blow his house and the whole neighborhood in pieces - starting with you, of course, since you were crawling in Kuttler's living room pissing yourself and throwing up your guts out."

Luthor protested with a grunt and indiscernible noises, the plastic mask making impossible for him to form clear words.

"Now, now, Mr. Luthor... you shouldn't get angry!" The man patted Lex's left hand, a gesture that was anything but friendly: _mockery_, that was what Luthor read in the apparent kindness. _Who are you?_, he wanted to ask. A cop? And who was his boss? He had never seen the man before, he had no registers of that person, and he didn't look like a metahuman...

"Like I was saying, you're a very lucky man... The boss took you out _and _avoided the explosion - imagine how many would get hurt if he hadn't!"

Luthor felt and unpleasant sensation in his stomach. The man, however, simply smiled.

"Your heart monitor shows the news affected you, Mr. Luthor... Are you glad? Happy that many were saved? Thrilled that not one piece of evidence was destroyed?"

Lex remained in silence and immobile.

"I hate to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I have bad news... Our little friend Noah was a smart-ass, and he erased all data in his computers... He _is_ some sort of genius, isn't he?" The man scratched his chin, and glanced at Luthor for a few moments. He seemed to be wondering about something, doubt in his eyes... but that didn't last long. He nodded his head from side to side and laughed. "Ah... what the hell! The boss told me I should keep my mouth shut, but you know what? I can't'. I just can't! I can't see a son of a bitch like you thinking you've won once again..."

He moved to a point where his head was just above Lex's, their eyes in direct contact, his hands placed on both sides of Luthor's head. He was _close_, uncomfortably close, and Lex couldn't avoid the unpleasant sensation of vulnerability that took him.

"We found your disk, Luthor. Yes, we did! You were holding it 'til you passed out, moron, and there's enough info in there to send both you and your buddy Noah to prison for life...! Isn't that sweet?"

The ambulance stopped, and Luthor heard the back doors being opened. That was a good thing: he was feeling incredibly cold, and his body trembled like he was convulsing; there was a pressure on his chest, and he could hardly breathe...

A feminine voice spoke:

"Give space to the paramedics, Bard! You're in the way!"

The man above him answered the woman by stepping back, though he also said, in a jocular tone:

"Are you sure about this, Romy? It _is_ Lex Luthor... No one here would say anything against you guys if you dropped him on his bold head..."

"Shut up, Bard, and say goodbye. Next time you meet Lex, well, it will either behind bars or in court."

"No Waldorf-Astoria for you, Mr. Luthor... not in this life." The man called Bard waved a cynical goodbye.

Luthor saw doctors around him, paramedics dressed in orange and an ER doctor in his green outfit. They were removing him from the ambulance, voices around him listing his vital signs and symptoms, the confusion of an ordinary hospital in one of the dirty and pitiful neighborhoods of that disgusting city called Gotham... _Hell indeed, Noah_, he thought while remembering the last words he heard from the Calculator before passing out. The situation was hell, and he could already predict how hard and troublesome would be to get out of it. Damn Gotham City, he should know better, he should know better than leave his territory, following the ideas of that insane, bratty Talia. Spoiled girl... She would get her piece of his revenge when all was over...

"Heard the good news, Lex?" It was the man called Bard speaking again: he was walking on his side, his head invading his view yet again, despite the doctors' protests. "When Gotham PD is done with collecting evidence, I can keep your Rolls!"

_It's_ _Hell, in the most literal sense of the word._

* * *

He stared at the wine in his glass for long minutes, gently swaying it in his hand, the vividly red liquid dancing elegantly in its vessel. Then, he brought the glass close to his nostrils, slowly absorbing the strong, accentuated scent. He smiled - satisfaction, pleasure, an expression of placid, deep delight. Finally, his lips lightly touching the crystal glass, he tasted the wine; a brief, carefully planned drink, and he took a few seconds to simply swallow it. When he did, however, he showed a look of approval, nodding his head as he seemed to intimately endorse the beverage he had just tasted.

"Wonderful", was his final statement. He raised the glass to watch it through the light of a lamp next to his chair. "Perfect, Talia; just like everything else, by the way."

"Thank you, Noah", replied a feminine, musical voice. "I'm glad we could live up to your expectations..."

She was sat on a divan, not far from him, in a luxuriously decorated room. The furniture basically consisted of original pieces of German design - mostly from the early 20's -, Bauhaus style, and the paintings on the walls followed the same tendency: Kandinsky, Klee, Chagall. All in that place spoke of money and sophistication, with a personal touch that was undeniably feminine and gentle. They were in a boat, after all - an _iate_, as Talia accurately defined when Noah came on board -, but they could easily be in a Mediterranean mansion or château, giving the extravagance and sumptuosity of the place.

And that was something that Noah, the Calculator, deeply appreciated.

"You're always _above_ expectations, my dear." Again he drank from the crystal glass. "Excellent wine...Bordeaux?"

"Chianti Superiore, actually." A half-smile of scorn punctuate her words.

He felt his face burn under her glance. "I see. Well, never had the most refined palate, I'm afraid."

"An honest mistake, Noah." She leaned over the divan, lying on her side, her head supported on her left hand, eyes on her guest. "We're all allowed a few mistakes in life, isn't that right?"

The Calculator smirked, placing his glass on the small table next to his chair:

"A single mistake could be a fatal one for people like us."

"Indeed. But that's why we always have a plan B, yes?"

An open smile on his lips, the Calculator relaxed in his chair. "Ah, yes... And you take all the credit on this one, my dear friend; if not for your boat, pardon me, _iate_, I would have been in trouble... Luthor managed to sabotage all my escape routes."

"Well, that's Lex for you." She assumed a serious, resentful expression. "He knows no limits when he is after destroying someone."

"So I see."

Talia rose from the divan, and, pressing a few buttons in an electronic panel on the wall, music started playing.

"This one I know", Noah joyfully observed. "Debussy, of course, in 'Berceuse...

"... 'Héroïque'. Yes, you're right. Good ears."

"Thank you." He stared at her, somewhat intrigued. "Interesting choice, if I may... he wrote this piece during the First World War, I'm sure you know."

"In honor of Albert I of Belgium and his men... Yes, I'm aware of it."

"I guess it was supposed to be glorious... However, when hearing it, I find it full of..."

"Anguish."

"Yes, that too." He sighed. "'Certain death, uncertain time'..."

"Aren't we gloomy tonight?" She was smiling again, and walked with no hurry along the room to finally seat on the divan again. Meanwhile, the Calculator seemed lost in thoughts.

"Tell me, Noah", she said after a few minutes. "Why did you risk the comfortable situation you were?"

"What do you mean?" He turned his eyes from the wine in his hands to glance at Talia.

"I mean, things were all right for you, you had enough money to make Luthor envy, and conquered a respectable position among our... well, peers. So, why care about an ex-girlfriend that was just a fat cow drowning in mediocrity?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes, please."

He took a deep breath.

"I don't know."

Talia's laugh was loud and carried obvious incredulity. "Oh, Noah... Do you take me for a fool?"

"Don't know what you mean", he said, his eyes avoiding hers.

She interrupted her laughing at once, and stared at him coldly.

"You wish me to believe you had Beatrice Collins murdered for nothing but the fact that she _rejected_ you in the past?"

"She didn't reject me..." His words came from clenched teeth and an infuriated expression. "She betrayed me!"

Talia observed him in silence, a grave look in her eyes.

"I couldn't forgive something like that." He took a drink from his glass, but now he showed no signs that he enjoyed it. In fact, taking from the painful expression in his face, one would think he had just swallowed a razor blade, not wine. "There are some things... some things that, no matter how much time passes, we just can't bring ourselves to forget."

_"Hey, Kuttler!"_

_Noah looked over his book to glance at officer O'Neal, who stood on the door of his cell with an annoyed expression across his ugly face. _

_"Get up, trash!" The door had been opened, and the prison guard impatiently tapped his foot on the floor, one hand resting on the metallic door frame. "Hurry up, and quit wasting my time!"_

_Noah yawned, and put his book aside. He lazily and slowly left his bed, first seating on its edge, then getting up – what he did without urgency, calmly putting his shoes on, carefully tying his shoelaces, and then buttoning up the shirt of his prisoner's uniform._

_"God dammed, Kuttler! Just get over here and let's go!" The man suggestively lowered his hand to the bludgeon on his belt. "Now!"_

_"All right, all right…!" He stood up and approached the guard in short steps. _

_"Hm", O'Neal groaned, a suspicious look in his eyes, "not so close, moron!"_

_Noah pretended surprise. "Sorry, sir…! I didn't realize…"_

_Stepping back, he offered both hands and stretched arms, waiting for the heavy handcuffs to be closed around his wrists. He watched attentively while the officer examined and tested the locks, and humbly obeyed when the man told him to walk; the guard followed him close behind. _

_"Where we going, sir?" He asked in his softest tone._

_The officer answered by hitting with a solid fist the metal plaque where the words "visiting area" could be read. "Where do you think, evil genius?" _

_Noah simply smiled._

_They finally reached the entrance to the visiting room, a passage guarded by four heavily armed and armored officers, who seemed to protect an equally heavy door. Reinforced steel, bullet proof glass, and digital recognition lock: it was Blackgate's visiting area, a place that was anything but inviting. _

_"Behave", O'Neal told him before allowing him to enter the room._

_"Please…" Noah showed the guard a smile of disdain. Then, disregarding the reaction of the officer, he marched to one of the chairs placed near the glass that separated prisoners and outside visitors. _

_There was no one on the other side, but that didn't seem to disturb Noah Kuttler; he placed both hands on his lap, finger tips touching each other, and kept his eyes on the visitor's entrance on the other side of the glass. Soon enough he heard the sounds of steps, and a slender, feminine silhouette entered the room. Noah smiled again, but now it wasn't the malicious smile he usually had for his antagonists and enemies: it was a smile of nothing but happiness. _

_He eagerly took his side of the phone communicator and placed over his ear. On the other side, seeming less anxious, although deeply gloomy, a young woman sat and took the phone next to her. _

_"Hi", she said in a tender, hesitant tone. _

_"Hi there", Noah replied, apparently unaware of the girl's vacillation. "How are you?"_

_She said nothing for a few seconds, lowering her eyes so she wouldn't be looking at him. _

_"Jules?"_

_"Sorry", she waved her head, removing a hair lock that had been falling over her eyes. Then, she smiled: a sad, sorrowful smile. "I'm okay, Noah. I'm fine." _

_"Honestly?" He didn't seem to believe her. "You look troubled… Something wrong?"_

_"No. No, it doesn't matter." She stared at Noah with seriousness, and bit her lower lip. "We need to talk, okay?" _

_"Sure, sweetheart." His own tone was soft, but he frowned. _

_"I've been talking to your lawyer, Noah…"_

_Those words seemed to annoy him: "Not that idiot!" _

_"Noah… Noah, listen to me…"_

_"Why have you been talking to him, anyway?!? I already fired the guy…!"_

_"Noah, please!" _

_Her plea was made in such a painful voice he had to quiet down and listen._

_"Thank you." She gave him a brief half-smile. "I just went there because he asked me to, Noah. Someone from the D.A. Officer had talked to him, and…"_

_"I won't make any deals", he simply stated in a cold tone. _

_The woman, however, stared at him in shocked disbelief. "Listen to me! It's a good…"_

_"No." _

_"But Noah, all they want is that you give them the blueprints of that machine you built, and then…"_

_"No! Read my lips, Julienne: no, no, no, no, NO!" His closed fist hit the wall next to him, and bloody spots of open wounds showed on his knuckles. "I'll never kneel to this system that supports the so called 'heroes'… Can't you it's them? They want to know how I did it, they want to rob my brilliant machine…!"_

_"They?"_

_"Yes, Julianne, they! They: Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, they! The glorified wannabe-gods, the tyrannical dictators in our society! The 'Justice' League!"_

_"Noah…" She sighed deeply, and covered her eyes with one hand. "You're being paranoid again… It's such a simple thing! If you do that, they said you just have to stay in prison for another year, and…"_

_"Never, Jules. Never." _

_"I feared you would say that." Her eyes misted, she again lowered her head to avoid his glance. "I can't live like this anymore, Noah… in fear!"_

_"What… what you're talking about...?"_

_"It's not only the police or the Justice League that wants your blueprints, Noah! There are crazy people out there, criminals, and they want it too… I've moved eight times since you were arrested, and I don't think this will ever end…" She took a handkerchief from her bag, and used it to dry the tears on her face. _

_"Camon, Jules… I told you already! There's nothing to fear! I have a good thing going on here, and a new idea for making a living when I'm out… Everything is gonna be fine, you just have to be patient…"_

_"No. I can't wait anymore. I don't want to."_

_Noah's expression froze in shock, his features loosing all color. "What… what do… do you mean?" _

_"They offered me a deal too, Noah." _

_He stood up in a sudden move, so abruptly the chair he was sat on fell back. "Don't do that, Julienne." _

_"I'm sorry, Noah. I came here to talk to you, see if you would do it yourself… and to try make you understand. I'm sorry." Her cry became more intense, tears running freely down her cheeks. "I really am sorry…!"_

_"Don't do it, Julienne! Don't betray me!" He punched the bullet proof glass, punishing his own knuckles more and more: blood marks stained the glass surface, and came down his arm in trails or red. "Don't do it! I'll never forgive you if you do it!" _

_She watched in silence while he screamed, and her painful look slowly gave place to an expression of pity and disgust. _

_"I deserve better, Noah." _

_Without another word, she placed the phone back in place, and waved him a silent goodbye. _

"Fascinating", Talia said, her gaze lost somewhere on the walls behind Noah.

"That's hardly how I would describe it."

She laughed, a musical laugh that, never the less, didn't bring any pleasure to her guest; he was, in fact, bitterly staring at his glass again, now an empty vessel with only traces of the rich wine that filled it moments ago.

"Noah, please... You _must_ be capable of seeing the irony in all that!"

"Irony?" He raised his glance to look at her, an unfriendly expression in his dull eyes. "All I see is an ungrateful tramp and her big mouth." Sighting, he added in a cooler tone: "Who's not around anymore, at least... Small blessings."

Talia watched as the Calculator stood and walked a few steps to the small bar on a corner of the room; there, he helped himself with more wine, and sat on one of the tall benches of the mini bar.

"Well, I wasn't referring to that..."

Although Noah seemed absorbed in thoughts, he was less oblivious than he looked, as demonstrated by a movement of brows that suggested he was intrigued by her words. "Go on", he said.

"You see, Noah", she proceeded just as she sat straight on the couch and crossed her legs, assuming an amused expression. "I think it's ironic that _you_, so concerned about your 'position' in this world, risked all for that mythical, intangible force called _love_..."

"Oh, please!" He interrupted her with his words said too loud, and with a hand gesture that meant only disdain. "Don't be a _woman_ and play the 'crime of passion' card on me! It was more than that, of course! The woman just knew too much, and..."

"Shut up, Calculator." Her tone was decisive and definitive; hard and rough, a cold snap to his ears. He said nothing more, somewhat surprised and - why not? - shocked by her sharp reaction. Talia, however, didn't show any changes in her relaxed, confident features, and just kept talking:

"We all know _why_ you did it, even if you don't... or rather try to ignore. You're a proud man, Noah; I know, I'm a proud person myself. _And_ I'm kind of experienced in love disappointments."

"Talia...", he risked. He was now seating on the edge of his seat, and nervously tapping his fingers over the counter. Talia's tone had changed in a way he couldn't quite place, but it was disturbing never the less.

"I understand, Noah. More than you can imagine." She raised from the divan, that tall, sinuous woman. Dressed all in black and leather, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders and covering the right side of her face. A gorgeous woman, no doubt, armed and trained, dangerous - only now Noah seemed aware of that fact. All and all, she wasn't that different from...

"You were angry; you were hurt. _She _hurt you, didn't she? Betrayed your trust, allied with your enemies. Oh, Noah, she _deserved_ what she got..." Talia approached him slowly, an enigmatic smile on her lips. "I sympathize, my friend. I really do."

Her left hand touched his face, cold, delicate fingers on his skin. For Noah, however, this wasn't pleasant; it was tense, strange, and, despite the fact he had no rational reason to believe it, he anticipated that something bad was about to come.

"You _suffered_, I know. The pain she caused you... _they_ caused you, isn't that right?"

"It's not like that...", he managed to say, but she wasn't done with the talking, and didn't seem interested in listening. Talia merely nodded her head side to side, and her smile appeared crueler than ever:

"You were unlucky, Noah. Always were."

He planned to move, but she was faster, so much faster than he ever was or could be: a gun was suddenly pointed to his face, the metal almost touching his forehead.

"You're not going somewhere, are you Noah?" She bent her head a few inches to her right, her dark eyes studying his movements and reactions.

"What are you doing?!?" There was nothing fake in his insulted expression and tone.

Talia stared the Calculator in silence for a few seconds, her features taken by unreadable feelings. Her eyes narrowed, and they seemed to spark as she pressed her lips together, undetectable thoughts rumbling in her mind. Still, moments later she took a deep breath and spoke:

"You did it for love, Noah. So did he. So did I."

"What are you talking ab..."

"I was the one that told Luthor everything, Calculator." Her tone was piercing cold, emotionless, mean in its lack of feeling.

He frowned. "How could you, Talia...?"

"I told you already."

Still pointing her gun to his head, she stepped back a few feet. Noah allowed himself to breathe again.

"We were partners, Talia. We had a _good_ thing going on..."

"Love and the past, Noah. Love and the past." Again she nodded her head, and she seemed unsure as she slowly lowered her gun; her features were strangely trapped between a sardonic smile and a grieving look. "It's always what ruins it, isn't it? Thus the irony..."

She turned her back on him.

"Talia?", he risked, just as he reached to grab the bottle of Chianti.

"I could never deny him _this_, could I?"

Noah swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. _What kind of nightmare is this?_, he allowed himself to wonder. All seemed familiar, perhaps too familiar, and he could guess - again! - what was about to come. Miscalculations, always a small, tiny miscalculation, something he wasn't aware of, and something that would mean the end of so many beautiful plans... Or was his own pride, his wounded feelings that brought the disgrace of his meticulously designed projects? Next time, next time he should consider this, this variable he had chosen to ignore. Next time...

The door on his left burst open, the loud noise of a sudden kick that shattered the refined wood. Talia slightly turned to face the entrance, but Noah didn't do the same; he bit his lower lip, and dropped the bottle he had just armed himself with. He wasn't wrong to suppose that the door frame revealed a dark, tall silhouette with blank eyes - eyes that carried a gaze full of hate and resent for him, a gaze that would be followed by a rude grasp he knew too well, a grasp of hands that could easily injure and wound, bringing pain, pain, and pain again.

It didn't worth a fight.

"Calculator", a husky voice claimed the room, "you come with _me_!"

And Noah knew he had no choice. Still, before Batman covered the three steps between them, the Calculator glanced at Talia. She too was looking at his direction, and, sensing his thoughts were on her, she said:

"Planning another revenge, Noah?"

He smiled, one last smile before the shadows closed around him.

"Oh no, Talia. I think I've finally learned my lesson."

* * *

"Thank you", I tell the butler as he offers my scotch on-the-rocks on a silver tray.

"You are welcome, Mr. Bard."

He's so _English_ in his accent and clothes, so classic and... well, _out of place_ in this century that I can't avoid staring at him for longer than I should. I accept the drink he offers, and watch while he walks to the other side of the room to deliver a cup of tea to Miss Dubrovna. Now, _that's_ the one I should be watching, right?

We're in one of the probably many rooms in the house – Wayne Manor is the fancy name of this huge place. The butler was the one that opened the door, so polite and tidy that I felt ashamed for the mud on my shoes and the wrinkles on my shirt. I introduced myself, and he didn't seem surprised; then, he led the way upstairs, taking me to this atrium: it's not like the rest of the place, grave and dark; no, here the big windows are open, a pleasant breeze reminding me is summer is ending and fall is already here. Walls are clear, painted in white, and the furniture is light; two chairs, one I'm sat on, and a chaise longue where Irena Dubrovna already occupied when I arrived. She's light too: her skin is pale, and she has green eyes that shine. She didn't rise to greet me, and I can guess why – sixty eight days in a hospital bed can take much of your strength. I know she's probably much thinner and weaker than she has ever been in her life, but, since I've never met her in person before, I can't help find her a beauty anyway. And I can just imagine how gorgeous this woman was – and will be – in regular clothes and in a hearty mood, out of a night gown and robes, her legs not covered by a blanket, but exposed, healthily carrying her around.

Now she looks at me, drinking her tea with elegance, and I look back while wondering about how much self-control she has. I mean, I've been shot before, and I know damn well she can't be completely cured, healed, free of pain. Hell, my leg is hurting _now_, and I'm sure her arm, her back, her chest, are hurting to.

So, yes, I sympathize. I shouldn't, because I'm here working, and also because this is Wayne Manor, the house where Dick Grayson – Barbara's ex, and, unfortunately, the guy she actually loves and the one I could never live up to – grew up, and, in fact, is visiting right now. Still, I sympathize; no matter that I'm uncomfortable among rich people, or that Grayson may walk into this room at any moment... I focus on the woman ahead, her green-green eyes, and this situation is not so awkward. To be honest, is truly enlightening – I now can finally understand, _see _why the boss has been so devoted to this case, why he cares so much.

It's her. It's all about her.

"So, Mr. Bard", she talks to me, and I'm obligated to keep my thoughts from drifting into funny directions. "I'm guessing you have news for me, isn't that right?"

"Please, call me Jason... and _yes_, Ms. Dubrovna, I've got news for you; and _good_ news, I dare say."

"Good, hm?" She smiled, a smile that would go unnoticed if I didn't have my eyes fixed on her, following even the slightest movement. "Let's hear it."

"We got him, madam."

"Got him?"

I smirk, and feel somewhat stupid for doing it; there's nothing to laugh about in here, I know this much, but I can't help it.

"Yes, madam. We got him, the guy that..." I gasp, and realize I'm without words. Suddenly I see that what I'm telling her is not actually something good, but something rather tragic; she was shot, almost died, and now I'm here telling her about the monster that did that to her. Those were awful news, even though, in my conscious, I believe it's something she _has_ to know.

"The man that had me shot." She simply stated. Not a blink, not a drop of sweat, not even a minor disturbance in her expression. Serious and grave, yes, but balanced and controlled. Not even rage, not even that I see in her eyes; she's not surprised or scared – she's interested, and that's all.

"Yes, Miss Dubrovna."

"I see." She places her tea cup on her lap, and I notice how she avoids my eyes. Then, she asks me something, and I just can't tell if she's doing it because she's curious or just because she wants me distracted, maybe doing something other than stare at her: "How did that go?"

"Complex..." I smile, now genuinely, and see myself taking a deep breath; hell, I'm tired, had no idea of how tired I am. Don't think I've slept in the last couple days, and now I feel those long hours of work and tension catching up. "But successful, never the less."

"Glad to hear it." Her lips move graciously again, and this warms my spirit, somehow.

"It couldn't go any other way."

"You'll have to explain yourself, Jason."

She wants me to think I've lost her, but I know I haven't; no, she gets all too well, and so do I. Still, I pretend to believe her 'pretty-and-dumb' act:

"Sorry, madam... Should've explained better." I say as I rub my wet palms on my trousers. "You see, son of a bitch that did _that... _perhaps you've heard about him. He's a guy that likes to call himself _The Calculator_, believe it or not."

"Calculator? Fancy name..."

I realize she's trying to be humorous, but I notice how she involuntarily frowned, and the twitch in the corners of her mouth; she's hating this.

"Never heard of him before?"

"No, I don't think so." She raised the tea cup to her mouth again, making it impossible for me to read her features.

Smart lady.

"Are you sure? His real name is Noah Kuttler, and he's notoriously known as a 'villain' from years ago... Had a ridiculous uniform with a computer on his chest, and he even fought members of the Justice League..."

"Noah Kuttler, you say?" She looks outside the open window, eyes staring at the blue clear sky, and while seeming to search her mind for information, she gently moves on her seat, as she tries to find a more comfortable position. "Maybe I did hear about him..."

"Oh, really?" I wanted to sound interested, but I can't avoid the feeling that my words sounded sardonic instead. She pretends not to hear it, of course, but I know she did; I see how her neck goes stiff, and something flushes behind the emeralds she has for eyes. But she says nothing at first, and when she finally does, she sounds gentle as always.

"Beatrice... she mentioned someone in her past with that name."

"Beatrice _Collins_, you mean?" It's my turn to fake surprise. After all, I'm not supposed to know much about her. I do, however; I'm no fool, and I'm a detective – that's about all I am, and I shouldn't fail, at least not in that. "Saying you knew each other, then..."

"We did." Again she turns to face me, or finally – I was eager to see her face again, her eyes on mine. Perfect eyes, that's what they are. They don't betray her, and say only what she means to say. Pretty, dangerous things, the eyes of a woman like that.

"Cops knew nothing about that."

"But Batman does", she stated with simplicity.

And I get scared, of course.

"It's alright, detective." She smiles, a smile of humble pleasure, showing at once she's having fun with my confusion, but not too much, just enough to make her look charming, and not cocky. "I understand your connections to our vigilante friend... as well as the fact that he, and you by his orders, have been working in my case."

"Well, yes... I didn't realize you and the boss knew each other so... _much_."

Now she laughs; I'm ready to feel offended, but she explains:

"I don't _know_ him, detective... Not in the usual sense of the word, at least. We've _met_; I guess that's the most accurate definition." She narrows at me, and I finally understand she's reading my reactions; I'm the subject of investigation, for a change – and this makes me feel weird, by the way. "You've been working for the guy, haven't you? You've probably realized that 'to know' the Batman is something very few could say they do... if anyone, I wonder."

She makes sense and, although I've my own guesses about this whole deal, I know there's truth in her words. Gotham Police had investigated the whole case without a clue of why Ms. Dubrovna was attacked, but I had had this advantage – the Bat told me there was a connection between her and Betrice Collins. It took me a while to find out, but, once Romy Chandler came with the information that inoffensive and ordinary Mrs. Collins actually was – or had been – one certain Julienne Vinneyard (whose life had surely been much less inoffensive and ordinary than presumed), I started to have my own thoughts on the subject.

"Yeah... He's the 'mysterious-and-silent' type." Acting unconsciously, I take a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. "Must drive the ladies crazy, hm?"

"I couldn't say." Her smile is so ambiguous that I, for once, don't know what to think. She glances at the cigarette between my fingers: "No smoking, please."

"Sorry", I say, the damn thing already hanging on my lips.

"It's okay. I've no problem with smokers, but you know... doctor's orders."

"Sure, madam."

I hear steps on the other side of the door, and I know it's not the butler: sounds like snickers, their rubber scratching the wooden floor. I turn to look when the door opens – the person who does that didn't see any need to knock before entering -, but not without noticing how she doesn't look a bit surprised by the interruption. A young man enters the room, and he carries a small child in his arms. For a moment I fear it's the Grayson guy (something of a nightmare, the man approaching with a baby and telling, all smiles, about how he and Babs are already married and have a kid; I flinch at the mere thought), but in a few seconds I realize I'm wrong. This is a teenager, around sixteen or seventeen, and barely has beard on his chin; Timothy Drake, I tell myself. Like Grayson had been, he's now Bruce Wayne's ward, and lives in the mansion since he became an orphan – something bizarre happened to his father, murdered by a presumably retired Captain Boomerang, if I recall well. Yes, I did my homework, because I never enter a household without knowing what waits for me... and that's why I also know who the child is, this baby girl that giggles with her arms stretched to her mother: Helena, Irena Dubrovna's daughter.

"Look who's already awake", the boy says, and his tone is gentle and caring. He cares about this little girl, obviously, and this reminds me they've been living under the same roof for months, now. Still, most teenage boys aren't fond of babies – this is clearly not the case here. Drake seems perfectly comfortable with the child in his arms, something that adds years to his juvenile features.

"Hey, sweetie!" Irena immediately takes the child, greeting her with the most sincere and open smile I've seen in her lips. She didn't stand up – I know she wanted to.

The kid delivers the baby to the mother, and right after that his attention is on me. He glances at me, and I see nothing young in his sky-blue eyes.

"Hello", I say to him. I know too well the kind of look he has for me, suspicious and wary, like I'm an intruder in this luxurious paradise of a house – which, of course, I am. So I smile politely as I greet him, and stretch my hand in a friendly gesture, knowing he won't be able to refuse my courteous move.

"Hey", he answers, and returns my hand-shake by firmly grasping my hand. Kids... He wants to show me _he _is the boss here, the "man of the house"; I can see he's not a goofy teenager, and I understand the message: boundaries. It's all about boundaries.

"Jason Bard. I'm with Gotham PD."

"Oh, really?" He smiles, a polite, curious smile, a perfect interpretation of a young man interested in cops and their exciting lives fighting crime... but I know it is, never the less, just an act. I see his eyes, and I know I saw _something_ there; a strange, weird look, like he wasn't surprised with what I said, but remembered he was _supposed_ to be. It was like... he knew me, somehow. Knew who I was. And what I'm doing here.

"Really. I'm a private detective, actually, but I sometimes work with cops and give them a hand..."

"Like a consultancy, hm?"

I like the way the kid thinks.

"Yes, sort of."

"Nice." He turns back to Miss Dubrovna, who now seems to be having lots of fun with her baby girl clapping hands and singing a song – can't understand a word the child is saying, but I guess it's kind of cute anyway. We, the boy and I, watch mother and daughter for a while, and it really is an hypnotizing thing: mom tickles, baby giggles, kisses and kisses, laughs, baby speaks things I don't get, mom thinks it's hilarious... more kisses, hugs, the boy smiles and, hell, I do too. The woman is beautiful, what can I say? She is beautiful, and, considering all that happened, and how she's still in recovery, she has an aura of melancholy and tragedy around her, things that add drama to the whole picture – and, well, deep inside, I'm a sentimental guy.

"Irena." It's the Drake kid calling, again using that serene, tender tone he seems to assume when talking to Miss Dubrovna and her daughter. "Shouldn't you be resting right now? The doctor will be here to see you any minute, and..."

Wait. _Wait_, I tell myself; there's something strange in the way the boy speaks. It's supposed to be casual, it's intended to sound like a concerned friend, and it actually does... but there's more.

"Yes, Tim, I know... I'm just finishing with Jason here, and I'll go lye down for a while..."

There. There, I saw. The way she glanced down when she spoke my name, and how the kid slightly, almost imperceptibly nodded his head. That was a _sign_, a sign between them, or I'm no detective at all.

"Okay. I'll leave you to it, then."

Timothy Drake walks out of the room, and you know what? I've a bad feeling about this... This kid, he's no regular sixteen years old, like Miss Dubrovna over there is more than just a single mom that was merely unlucky to end as target of a crazy bastard.

"Sorry to keep you here, Miss Dubrovna", I speak before she has a chance to, because I know that if I don't take the lead now, she will, and it will mean the end of my investigation. "I have just a couple more questions, and..."

"I thought you were here to give me news, Jason... thought _you _were the one giving _me_ the answers." Her smile is gentle and adorable, but her eyes, her eyes are smart and penetrating, and they tell me she knows exactly what I want. Yeah, no point in hiding my game anymore...

"Well, yes... but that's not all." I smile back, though it's obvious that there's a tension in the room: even the child, the baby girl that was laughing and talking just seconds ago, now seats quietly on her mother's lap, her big eyes staring at me, a concentrated, austere one year old that seems to be judging me severely.

What's wrong with everybody in this house? No one looks their own age, or fit their given stereotype...

"It's not all?" She wraps her arms around the baby, bringing her closer to her body. "I thought _Batman_ had sent you here..."

Okay, now she got me. She went straight to the point, making just the right question that will make me look bad... Gee, the woman is smart as the devil...

"He didn't exactly _send_ me, madam..."

I see all color leave her face, and she presses her lips together in a straight, tense line.

"I thought it would be the right thing to do, tell you in first hand about Kuttler's arrest. And I've no doubt my boss thinks the same..."

"He didn't send you, did he?"

I can't fight or escape the direct question.

"No, he didn't", I answer after a prolonged sigh. I looked down to my own hands, fingers wrapped in each other, resting on my lap; she is furious, I know, she _must_ be, furious and, perhaps, disappointed. Yeah, I'm too old in this game to feel bad about what I did... but I'm not proud either. And I certainly don't feel like looking into her eyes right now. "But there are things in this case, Miss Dubrovna, that weren't explained yet... questions that need answers."

She doesn't say a word; if not for the occasional babbling sounds little Helena makes, the room would be taken by a heavy and uncomfortable silence. I know she's thinking about throwing me out of the house, and I'm expecting the moment she will tell me to leave – what I don't get is why she hasn't done that yet. Therefore, I must use this moment of hesitance, this slight advantage I have:

"Your life isn't exactly an open book, Miss Dubrovna..."

"So?" She cuts me before I can end my sentence, and I realize my words affected her somehow.

"So, it has been hard for the police, or even me, to understand _why_ the Calculator wanted you dead."

I raise my glance to watch her face: impassible, pale, and now taken by a cold expression.

"Do the insane need reason for acting the way they do?"

Pretty words, but even I can see she doesn't believe in them.

"He certainly _is_ crazy, madam; never the less, this 'insane' man always plans carefully his actions, and, in the last years, developed a network of contacts and services for the underworld like we've never seen before." I stare the green emeralds she has for eyes, now two pools of choler and apprehension. "I hardly think your attack was the fruit of random insane behavior on his part."

She returns my glance with silence, and we look at each other for a few moments. I'm expecting anything: a burst of anger, yells, security entering the room. I'm surprised, however, to see she just kisses her child, and speaks to me in her usual, slightly sarcastic tone:

"And _I_ hardly think that, as a victim, I should be the one to find an explanation for my aggressor's behavior."

"Agreed." Because I really do, but that's beside the point. "However, I'm curious on how do you know Mrs. Collins. Because, in a matter of fact, you haven't lived in East End Gotham for a while, have you? You say you knew Beatrice Collins, and that she even mentioned Noah Kuttler to you... but no one in her family, or among friends, seems to remember you, or even remembers Beatrice _mentioning_ you..."

"What's going on here?"

I'm interrupted by a door suddenly bursting open and a male, enraged voice. It belongs to a young man, tall, slender and, I hate to admit, good-looking. He's dressed in what looks like an outfit for jogging, a black sleeveless shirt and blue paints, and his dark hair falls in disorder around his tempestuous expression – he seems both outraged and irritated, and all this anger, of course, is directed at none other than me.

"Good morning, Mr. Grayson." I stand and reach a hand, doing just what I've been whishing I didn't have to. "I'm..."

"Jason Bard", he finishes my sentence. Then, he's glancing at me from head to feet, measuring me, judging me, perhaps wondering how he would take me down if he had to; I'm, sure enough, doing the same. "I _know_ who you are. What I _don't_ know is what you're doing here."

"I'm a private detective", I say it like it explains something.

"I don't care what you are... This is a private domicile, and you shouldn't be here!"

Although I know I shouldn't, I can't avoid putting my wryest smile on when I speak. "I didn't break in, you know? 'Knocked on the door like good manners told me to, and..."

"And", it's Irena Dubrovna suddenly talking, and she has managed to stand up too, her baby on her arms, putting herself between me and Mr. Right, who looks like is about to jump over me and bite my neck, "he was about to leave, anyway."

Grayson obviously don't want to take his suspicious eyes from me, but he can't help it: his infuriated expression changes into a preoccupied one as he turns to face the woman, and he stretch his arms to put them around the faltering Miss Dubrovna.

"You... you shouldn't stand up like that! And carrying Helena...!"

"Dick, please!"

Her tone is not rude or harsh, but she speaks to Grayson in a stubborn, resolute voice. She accepts the support of his arms, but is less then happy to realize she indeed needs it, and the color returns to her face as result of irritation and exasperation. I had figured it out already, but now I've my confirmation: she hates being a victim, and she hates the fact she constantly needs help.

"I'm alright", she insists, but Dick Grayson seems skeptical; he takes a step back to put a hand on her lower back and prevent any falls. Hell... I can see perfectly why Babs like him... He really is a boy-scout, isn't he? All nice and sympathetic, and I'm pretty sure it's not an act. He just is one of these guys that _care_, and helps old ladies cross the streets; dear Lord, give the guy a cape and he'll be on the cover of "People" as "Hero of the Year".

It's almost hard to hate him. _Almost._

"I'll take you to your room", he proceeded, "and deal with _that_" – it would be me – "later."

He clearly thinks he can kick my ass out of the mansion. Well, maybe he can – but it wouldn't be as easy as he thinks. Still, I don't feel like getting in trouble today, too damn tired. That, and also because I know it would upset the boss, and, well, _he_ can kick my ass for sure. Besides, it's a good job, the one Batman provides me, and, to be perfectly honest, I don't want to disturb Miss Dubrovna any longer than I already have.

"Don't worry, Grayson. I can find the door on my own."

I walk pass them, and do my best to smile at Irena Dubrovna in a friendly way. She wouldn't believe me if I said it, of course, but truth is I actually liked her; she is gorgeous, interesting, and, obviously, smart. Dangerous too, and probably a good liar, but I liked her nevertheless.

I'm out of the house in a minute or so, because finding the door on my own wasn't, after all, such an easy job. But I eventually ran into the butler, and he kindly pointed the way out. Now I'm here, walking to my car, the Manor behind me, and wondering:

Irena Dubrovna, her secrets, the mysteries surrounding her life – that's a story that is far from over.

* * *

_Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?_, Romy had asked, and he knew it was less a question and more a suggestion. Oh, he knew how _not_ cool this was: shut her out at the last moment, exclude her in the very last scene of the final act. They had been a team, after all, partners in so many things, and, so far, successful in every one of their enterprises. This case, the Collins/Dubrovna case, this one would be one to remember, he knew that; he and Romy, together from beginning to end, carving small clues from places were most detectives would see nothing but dead ends... To discover that Beatrice Collins had been Noah Kuttler's girlfriend? That was Romy's doing. She noticed the smallest detail, something that, Driver admitted, he would have let pass in a blink: Beatrice Collins records said she was born and raised in Texas, but, in an old family video, Romy immediately recognized her accent as from Lousiana_. That's a swamp girl_, she said.

She dug and dug, and, with a little help from that crazy dude Jason Bard - now that's a guy that could easily be defined as "swamp rat", though he did prove to be a smart one -, she managed to come up with info from the witness protection files from the F.B.I.. Amazing. It was amazing. If not for that, they would still be in the dark, looking for where to start. Yes, Romy was great - great cop, great woman -, but he would have to let her down this once.

Driver opened the heavy metal door, pushing it with perhaps more strength than necessary: the door complained, an unpleasant noise coming from its joints; the metal scratched the floor, and Marcus walked out of the narrow stairway to the exposed, open-clear space beyond the heavy door. The rooftop. Or yet, the rooftop of Gotham City Police Department's main building - best known as "where the signal was".

The detective sighed, glancing around in the darkness of a hot summer night. Dark purple clouds hid the stars and the moon, and there were no lights, except for the occasional lightning in the East, to help him see. He had a flashlight - but he knew better than to use it right now. Dark is the way it should be, and he knew it too well.

"A storm is coming", he said it to the wind that sang around him.

"It will be here soon", answered a gruff, low voice behind him.

He turned to look at the speaker, with no surprise or concern. His eyes still getting used to the lack of light, Marcus could only figure the deceiving outlines of a shape that was in constant movement - the restless dark cape the wind seemed to make dance, the growing shadows around that man that, in fact, didn't look like a man at all. "And you're just in time", he observed, hands inside his pockets, feeling a violent and sudden rush of air throwing locks of his own hair over his eyes and forehead.

"Time is a valuable good, and shouldn't be wasted."

"I hear you, man..." He glanced at the masked person ahead, his blank and inexpressive eyes, and yet, eyes that could make murders and sociopaths cry in fear... They didn't see him, did they, like a _person_, a _human being_...? No. To them, he was more - he was an intangible, abstract creature, someone that had no name and, why not, no human eyes. There wasn't a man there, not right now. You couldn't see it even if you tried... He wasn't acting, he wasn't playing, neither pretending - he _was_ that thing; he was a dark vigilant in a mission, and not just a guy in an outfit. In the end, there was no point in wondering; Batman was Batman, and whoever lied beneath, well... for him, Marcus realized, it didn't matter at all.

"You asked for me", Batman said, his voice carrying a gentler tone than usually did.

"I did." Driver walked a few steps away, approaching the East side of the building. He looked at the distant horizon, the threatening lightning and thunders. A half-smile on his lips, he spoke loud, words carried by the wind: "One writer once said... is was Oscar Wilde, or Mark Twain, I'm not sure... But one of them said something like this: 'thunder is impressive, thunder is great, but it's the lightning that does all the work'..."

Marcus glanced at Batman, trying to read something in the vigilante's expression.

Nothing.

"Who am I, Batman?" He took a deep breath, words flowing surprisingly quickly. "Am I the thunder or the lightning?"

Silence was his only answer. "Yeah, I don't know it either..." He nodded his head. "I don't even know what I _want_ to be... I mean, I always wanted to do my job, and that's all; catch the bad guy, put him behind bars, and then work on the next case. However..."

He took a moment to look at the sky again, clouds getting closer faster and faster. In his corner, Batman remained immobile.

"The thing is, when I'm here, just doing my job... I just keep tumbling on you. I know you want to _help_, and you do, sometimes..."

"But not always." Batman's grave voice seemed to come from a great distance.

It took Marcus a few moments of reflection before coming up with an answer. "No. Not always." Driver thought those words had taken him a fair amount of courage to be said, but, once out of his mouth, seemed to have taken with it much of the heaviness in his chest. He felt encouraged, even relaxed, and had to talk more. "You don't consider _us_ when you're doing your thing... we _always_ have to consider you when we do _our_ job. You're thunder _and_ lightning, I get it; but we're here too. We are part of Gotham, just like you are; we _live_ here! And there are things..."

He pressed his lips together, and could feel the anger growing in his guts, and he allowed it to flow in his words. "There are choices that aren't yours to make, Batman."

"Are you _done_, Driver?" His tone was harsh, but not menacing.

"Not really." On the other hand, Marcus now seemed calm and relaxed, even satisfied. He took from his pocket what seemed like a DVD disc. "I made a promise to a man. I told him that if he helped me, I would do _all_ I could to get the bastard that hurt a friend of his."

Batman attentively watched the detective, his eyes on the disc Driver held.

"We got our hands on Luthor and Kuttler; your _plan_ worked like a beauty, and the information you provided us helped us get these guys. I'm grateful... but I don't think I'll be able to keep the promise I made."

"And why is that?"

Marcus sighed. "Oh, well... it's just one of those things... you see, I did get a confession from Kuttler's mouth, he telling me with all the words he had hired someone to kill Beatrice Collins and Irena Dubrovna..."

"However..."

"However", he raised his eyebrows, "I don't think I'll use it."

Although Batman's mask revealed nothing, Marcus was pretty sure the vigilant now stared at him with an intrigued look. The detective smiled, and tossed the disc in his hand to the cloaked hero ahead. "Here, take it."

"What's this?"

"We _do_ have enough to get Kuttler for the murder of Beatrice Collins, you know? He'll root in prison for that, considering his antecedents are less than distinguished..."

Batman carefully examined the disc he now held, so meticulously that one could believe he was actually reading it.

"Yes, 'property of Gotham's Police Department'."

"Why are you giving me this?" The tone was severe.

"Can't you guess?" He nodded his head in amused disapproval. "It's Kuttler's confession, word by word, and that's the only copy."

"And you're giving me this because..."

"I want you to decide if we should use it."

Batman stepped out of his shadowed corner, revealing himself in his impressive size. _He really is very tall_, Marcus couldn't avoid thinking. Now the dark, long cape was wrapped around his body, and the mask did a good job in covering most of his face; however, his chin and mouth were distinctive, that portion of clear skin among abundant black fabric, and his expression was a hard, grievous one:

"What did he say?" His preeminent jawbone visibly twitched as he spoke through clenched teeth.

Marcus bit his lower lip. "I think you already know." His own voice was cold. "It is, after all, why you got so involved, isn't it? Because of _her_. Because of who she _is_."

"I got involved because it's a _crime_. And you should remember that Noah Kuttler is a previously convicted criminal, a murderer, and, no doubt, a liar."

"Saying he is lying?" Marcus interrupted Batman in a loud voice, irritation and the sounds of the storm obligating him to speak louder. "He didn't sound like a liar, and I'm pretty good in recognizing one..."

The Dark Knight, however, didn't answer. He merely turned his back on the police officer. "You're _testing_ me, detective? Or are you trying to prove a point?" He glanced over his shoulder and, this time, the blank eyes of his mask seemed full of significance and emotion. "There's no lesson in here, Driver; a responsible person would never let the words of an insane man harm a woman and her child - you do remember Irena Dubrovna has a child, don't you?"

Marcus' half-smile surfaced again:

"Another thing we agree on." He crossed his arms over his chest, and, as rain begun to fall, he experimented for the first time in weeks the sensation of being cleaned: the water taking with it the heavy, indigestible weight that had been living for a long time in his stomach. "Nothing is simple in this job, Batman. There are many hard decisions to make."

"Is this the _lesson_ you're trying to teach?"

The detective smiled. "I'm just saying: we're not so different. I acknowledge that."

Batman climbed on the roof's balustrade. His back to Driver, he faced the city bellow, and its extensive skyline against the dark, tempestuous clouds. "And I respect that, detective." He opened his arms, his cape like wide wings, and jumped to the vast, clear space bellow.

The disc remained abandoned on the floor: in pieces, smashed by heavy steps.

* * *

He climbed on the bed next to her, thinking he hadn't made a sound.

"Hi", she said.

He sighed. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be", she immediately added, "I was awake."

He glanced at her in the deep darkness of the bedroom, her features masked by the shadows, her body partially hidden under the sheets. "Having trouble to sleep?"

She turned to face him, her green eyes shining with a light of their own. What had Bard said when inquired about his meeting with Selina...? '_She radiates, that one... Has a sparkle in her, I tell you.'_

And he was right.

"I've always been sort of a 'night person', you know?" She smiled, he realized; her half-smile that was a charm, the one thing about her he could never resist - how many times, as Batman, had he seen himself without action, unable to react, only because she smiled like that at him?

"I know." He raised a hand to touch her face, his rough palm caressing her soft skin. Her half-smile melted, and was gradually replaced by a gentle, soothed twinkle. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Well..." The ruffled sound of the sheets told him she was getting closer even before her warm, smooth body touched his'. Her scent, sweet scent invaded his nostrils, and he felt the familiar sensation: a sudden rush of desire that spread to his body in a second. She had her eyes on his, and her glance was suggestive. "I can think of a thing or two... can't you?"

He said nothing; there was no time to think. Lowering his lips to touch hers, they shared a long, deep kiss. Her taste, her scent, her body, her voice... he focused in those things and nothing more, making all he could to concentrate in nothing but her, trying to keep anything else outside. _Bruce_, she said; he wrapped his arms around her, bringing their bodies close together, his eyes closed as he secretly wished their embrace would never break. _Selina_, he said, her name spoken in the darkness and in a low, muffled tone. A precious, secret word, her name was a treasure he wanted to keep only to himself - _she_ was a treasure. Delicate, fragile, valuable and cherished by him like he never imagined one could, would be. He had almost_, almost _lost her... the kind of thought that would torment and torture him forever. He had hoped it would all be finished, he did all he could to end it, but... it would never end. There was no end to this, and there was no rest.

"Selina", he said her name again as she laid under him, his hands holding her face between them, their foreheads touching and their breaths blending in each other. He whispered: "I'll keep you safe... always."

She placed one hand on the back of his neck, her slender fingers gently stroking his skin. "I'm safe now, Bruce... You took care of everything." Her lips lightly brushed his ear. "Right?"

He lifted his head a few inches, glancing down at her face. She looked back; green eyes that carefully studied his features, searching for an answer he couldn't give her.

"I'm okay, Bruce", she reassured.

"I'll protect you. I promise."

She took his words in silence, without protest or questions. She did seemed intrigued for a moment, her gaze fixed in his deep blue eyes, trying to read something underneath - it was just for a brief moment, however. It passed, and soon she was smiling again: a genuine, sincere, honest smile. A smile of acceptance, a smile of understanding, a smile that told him 'yes' without any words.

And he loved her for that.


End file.
